THE     LOST    ANGEL 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 


BY 


KATHARINE    TYNAN 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  WAY  OF  A  MAID,"  "THE  ADVENTURES  OF 
ALICIA,"  ETC. 


PHILADELPHIA 

J.    B.    LIPPINCOTT     COMPANY 
LONDON:    JOHN    MILNE) 


CONTENTS 


PAQB 

THE  LOST  ANGEL 1 

AN  OLD  COUPLE 15 

THE  JUDGMENT  OP  SOLOMON 31 

ST.  MARY  OF  THE  ISLES 53 

THE  Fox 71 

THE  INTERVIEW 85 

A  HOMELESS  COUPLE 99 

A  LETTER  OF  INTRODUCTION 113 

A  TELEPHONE  MESSAGE 133 

THE  CHILDREN  AT  OKEOVERS 147 

THE  KIND  SAINT 166 

AUNT  BETTY 186 

PRINCESS  MOLLY 200 

His  LORDSHIP  AND  THE  POET 220 

THE  KING  COPHETUA 231 

BILLY  AND  THE  BONNETS 251 

THE  OLD  HERO 267 

THE  KNOCKING  AT  THE  DOOR 286 


THE  LOST  ANGEL. 

WAKING'S  eye  rested  on  the  little  image  amid  the 
garishness  of  the  fair,  and  he  had  a  feeling  as 
though  he  had  suddenly  emerged  into  a  place  of 
greenness  and  flowing  waters. 

It  was  a  little  angel  in  yellowed  marble.  The 
edges  of  the  marble  were  smooth  as  ivory.  It  was 
chipped  here  and  there.  Plainly  it  was  very  old. 
How  on  earth  had  it  come  there  amid  the  plaster 
casts  and  painted  images  such  as  are  turned  out 
cheaply  by  the  thousand  ? 

As  he  took  it  into  his  hand  something  stirred 
within  him,  warmed  him  like  a  little  flame,  stabbed 
him  with  a  resentment  which  was  tenderness 
wounded  to  death.  The  little  angel  had  the 
rounded  cheek,  the  purity  of  outline  from  ear  to 
chin  of  Mildred,  the  girl  whom  he  had  sworn  to 
forget,  whom  he  had  thrust  out  of  his  mind  as  men 
sometimes  thrust  away  the  patient  angel  we  call 
Conscience. 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

He  stood  there  a  minute  staring  at  the  figure. 
It  was  beautifully  carved.  He  said  to  himself  that 
the  face  had  the  moulding  of  an  unsheathed  lily. 
All  around  him  were  noise,  dust,  heat,  glare.  He 
heard  the  screaming  of  a  steam  merry-go-round. 
Just  opposite  where  he  stood  people  were  going  in 
and  out  of  the  tent  of  the  human  leopard.  Amid 
the  vulgarities  of  the  fair,  its  indecencies,  the 
innocence  he  held  in  his  hand  struck  him  as  some- 
thing curiously  pathetic.  He  felt  as  though  he 
must  snatch  the  little  angel  away  as  he  would 
have  snatched  an  innocent,  uncomprehending 
child. 

"  How  much  ?  "  he  asked. 

The  man  behind  the  stall  looked  at  him  from 
under  his  crafty  eyelids. 

"The  little  angel?  It  was  very  choice.  Mon- 
sieur had  doubtless  perceived  how  excellent  it  was." 
He  asked  for  the  little  angel  fifteen  francs. 

Turning  the  little  figure  about  Waring  had  dis- 
covered on  a  feather  of  one  delicate  wing  the  price, 
one  franc.  But  he  handed  over  the  fifteen  francs 
without  demur.  It  was  worth  a  good  deal  more 
than  that  he  said  to  himself,  and  if  the  rogue  had 
asked  him  many  times  that  amount  he  should  have 
paid  it.  The  little  angel  seemed  to  have  laid  soft 
constraining  hands  about  his  hearts 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

As  he  walked  home  from  the  fair  to  his  dim  old 
hotel  in  the  Haute  Ville  he  asked  himself  bitterly 
why  he  had  made  such  a  purchase.  God  knows 
that  angels  were  far  enough  from  him  since  Mildred 
and  he  had  parted  company. 

It  was  night,  and  the  ill -lit  streets  with  their 
shiny  cobble-stones  were  more  dangerously  smooth 
because  of  a  recent  shower.  He  thrust  the  little 
angel  which  he  had  been  carrying  in  his  hand  into 
his  breast,  as  though  he  held  a  child  there  for 
warmth  and  shelter.  As  he  held  it  with  his 
hand  pressed  against  it  he  had  again  the  sensation 
of  something  warm  and  comforting.  Why  ?  Be- 
cause the  little  angel  had  Mildred's  rounded  cheek  ? 
What  unspeakable  folly  !  How  dared  he  think  of 
her  !  She  would  go  her  own  honest,  honourable 
way  in  life  while  he — went  to  the  Devil.  He  was 
going  there  now  as  fast  as  he  could.  The  furies 
were  at  his  heels. 

Suddenly  he  stopped  short  in  the  gloomy  street, 
so  suddenly  that  a  sergent-de-ville  slipped  into  the 
shadows  and  eyed  him  suspiciously  for  a  moment 
or  two.  He  had  felt  unmistakably  as  he  thought 
the  pressure  of  a  child's  hands  on  his  heart, 
constraining  soft  hands  that  he  could  not  break 
from  if  he  would. 

As  he  went  on  his  heart  began  to  bleed.  If  he 
3 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

had  not  been  such  an  accursed  fool — he  did  not  stop 
to  pick  his  words ;  if  Helen  had  not  cast  her 
beautiful,  baleful  shadow  over  his  life,  Mildred 
would  have  been  his  wife  more  than  three  years 
ago.  He  might  have  been  holding  Mildred's  child 
and  his  against  his  breast  as  he  was  holding  the 
little  angel  now.  But  he  had  destroyed  himself ; 
with  his  own  hand  he  had  cut  down  the  fair  fabric 
of  his  happiness.  He  panted  like  a  man  athirst  in 
the  desert  at  the  dream  of  water  as  a  vision  swam 
into  his  mind  of  that  unattainable  lost  Paradise, 
the  life  that  should  have  been  his  with  Mildred. 
He  had  said  good-bye  to  all  things  lovely  and  of 
fair  report.  Helen  had  called  him  back  to  his  old 
bondage,  and  he  was  going.  He  had  found  that 
the  fetters  of  sin  were  harder  to  slip  than  any 
that  religion  and  conscience  and  virtue  can  forge. 
As  he  went  wearily  to  bed  in  his  room  in  the 
Hotel  de  France  he  knew  that  all  illusions  were 
over  for  him.  Even  his  passion  for  Helen  was  a 
dead  thing.  He  knew  why  she  wanted  him,  now 
that  her  husband,  the  simple,  good  fellow  she  had 
cheated  and  betrayed,  was  dead.  She  wanted  him 
not  because  she  loved  him — if  she  had  loved  him 
he  said  to  himself  that  he  could  have  forgiven  her 
— but  because  she  was  no  longer  so  young  as  she  had 
been  ;  because  it  was  time  for  her  to  range  herself, 

4 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

to  become  respectable,  now  that  the  middle-age  she 
loathed  was  in  sight.  She  had  always  kept  on  good 
terms  with  the  world.  As  Mrs.  Waring  of  Wolver- 
cote  Place  she  could  hold  her  head  as  high  as  any  of 
them.  In  time,  he  thought  with  bitter  mockery  of 
himself  and  her,  she  might  become  a  dragon  of 
respectability.  And  none  would  know  except  her 
husband  how  corrupt  a  heart  was  hers,  how  her 
memory  was  a  place  of  dead  bones  and  ashes  of 
burnt-out  passions. 

Helen  had  called  him  home  to  an  early  private 
marriage.  She  had  no  mind  to  take  the  chances. 
They  could  be  married  at  once,  and  as  soon  as  a 
decent  interval  of  widowhood  had  passed  the 
marriage  could  be  announced.  The  time  had  long 
passed  when  the  thought  of  marriage  with  Helen 
would  have  fired  his  blood.  He  was  going  to  her 
from  old  habit,  because  he  had  made  such  a  ruin 
of  his  life  that  it  was  no  use  considering  what  was 
left.  He  had  so  little  illusion  about  it  all  that  he 
said  to  himself  that  if  Helen  could  have  brought 
a  wealthier,  titled  suitor  to  the  point  of  proposing 
marriage  she  would  have  let  him  be. 

He  was  going  home  to  atone  for  the  folly  and 
wickedness  of  his  youth.  He  was  going  to  make 

jlen  the  lady  of  Wolvercote,  to  set  her  up  there 
rhere  only  good  women  and  honourable  men  had 
5 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

reigned.  He  mocked  again  at  himself  when  he 
thought  of  Helen  and  himself  sitting  in  the  places 
his  father  and  mother  had  occupied.  Why  had 
he  ever  been  born  ?  Why  had  he  not  died  before 
he  had  come  to  such  things  ? 

As  he  turned  on  his  pillow  a  little  radiance  fell  on 
his  closed  eyelids.  He  opened  his  eyes  and  looked 
towards  the  shelf  on  which  he  had  placed  the  little 
angel.  There  was  surely  a  light  about  it.  Moon- 
light, it  must  be  moonlight  of  course,  through  a  rift 
in  the  window  curtains.  He  felt  the  radiance  on 
his  face  as  he  fell  asleep.  It  lay  palely  over  all  his 
dreams,  which  were  peaceful  ones,  dreams  of  child- 
hood, of  his  mother  and  Mildred.  It  was  long  since 
he  had  had  such  dreams. 

He  had  a  wet  and  stormy  crossing,  and  when  he 
reached  London  he  found  it  in  reeking  rain  and 
heat.  No  one  expected  him.  He  had  not  even 
written  to  Helen  to  say  that  he  would  come.  He 
might  obey  her,  but  it  was  unwillingly.  He  would 
make  no  pretence  at  eagerness.  She  herself  had 
killed  his  ardour  long  ago. 

He  was  hungry  too.  But  before  he  ate  he  must 
have  dry  clothes.  He  had  remained  on  deck  during 
the  passage  and  had  sat  in  wet  clothes  ever  since. 

He  drove  to  his  flat  and  let  himself  in.  It  had 
been  unoccupied  for  some  months  and  drifts  of  dust 

6 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

were  over  everything.  The  ashes  of  a  fire  of  last 
winter  lay  in  the  grate.  What  daylight  there  was 
from  the  obscured  sky  hardly  struggled  through 
the  dirty  windows.  The  discomfort  of  it  smote  him 
coldly  through  his  unhappiness. 

He  unstrapped  his  portmanteau  to  find  dry  clothes. 
One  of  the  first  things  to  come  out  was  the  little 
angel.  He  had  put  it  away  wrapped  in  a  bit  of 
beautiful  silk,  one  of  the  many  things  he  had  pur- 
chased in  his  wanderings,  not  so  much  because  of 
any  pleasure  in  acquiring  them  as  from  an  old 
habit.  Though  life  was  over  for  him  he  still  could 
not  help  buying  a  beautiful  thing  when  he  saw 
it. 

He  laid  it  down  still  swathed  in  the  silk.  The 
next  thing  to  come  out  was  his  case  of  razors.  As 
he  put  it  aside  a  thought  struck  him.  Many  a 
man  would  have  found  a  way  out  that  way.  It 
might  be  the  decentest  thing  to  do,  not  by  way  of 
the  razors — his  fastidiousness  recoiled  from  that — 
but  by  way  of  a  drenched  handkerchief  over  the 
face,  a  pilule,  a  few  drops  in  a  glass.  That  would 
save  Wolvercote,  at  least.  If  there  was  another 
world  out  there  among  the  shades  he  need  not  fear 
the  scorn  of  the  clean  honourable  men,  the  eyes  of 
the  good  women,  he  had  sprung  from. 

There  was  a  chemist's  shop  around  the  corner. 
7 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

They  knew  him.  They  would  give  him  what  he 
asked  for  without  a  doctor's  prescription. 

He  changed  his  clothes  and  went  out.  He  had 
forgotten  the  little  angel  lying  on  the  floor  in  its 
silk  wrappings.  The  thought  of .  the  euthanasia 
so  easily  procurable  around  the  corner  for  a  few 
coins  had  engrossed  him.  He  had  not  even  a  dog 
to  miss  him  when  he  was  gone.  Wolvercote  would 
go  to  his  cousin  Eeggie,  that  irreproachable  parson 
with  a  parson's  quiverful.  With  Eeggie,  Wolvercote 
might  keep  its  honour  untarnished.  He  did  not 
suppose  Helen  would  care.  She  would  be  angry 
with  him  for  thwarting  her  plans — and — she  would 
look  for  a  new  lover. 

When  he  came  back  again,  with  his  key  to  the 
great  mystery  resting  unromantically  in  the  breast- 
pocket of  his  coat,  his  foot  knocked  against  the 
little  angel.  The  room  now  was  full  of  the  dusk 
and  of  shadows.  He  lifted  it  with  a  compunction, 
as  though  he  had  struck  flesh  and  blood,  and 
cleared  a  space  for  it  on  the  chimney-piece  amid 
the  ddbris  of  six  months  ago.  Then  he  stood  re- 
garding it  unhappily. 

Again  he  had  the  delusion  that  a  light  came 
from  it.  So  mild  and  wavering  was  it  that  he  could 
not  be  sure  if  it  was  an  effect  of  the  twilight  and 
the  newly  lit  lamp  in  the  street.  The  outline  of 

8 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

the  cheek  glimmered.  It  was  Mildred :  no,  it  was 
an  angel :  it  was  a  praying  child  :  if  a  man  had 
had  a  dead  child  in  Heaven  he  might  have  thought 
of  it  so. 

He  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand  and  leant 
upon  the  chimney-piece.  He  touched  the  little 
figure  with  a  caress  and  had  a  feeling  as  though 
virtue  came  out  of  it.  Slowly,  slowly  he  drew 
from  his  pocket  the  thing  that  was  to  have  pro- 
cured him  his  way  out.  He  opened  the  window 
and  scattered  it  to  the  night  air.  At  least  he  need 
not i add  cowardice  to  his  other  shames,  and  Wolver- 
cote  might  await  its  deliverance.  No  child  of  his 
would  step  into  his  shoes ;  in  time  a  son  of  Reggie's 
would  succeed  him,  and  things  would  go  on  in  the 
old  blameless  way. 

Well,  he  supposed  he  ought  to  go  to  Helen.  She 
was  in  town  and  must  be  expecting  him  every  day. 
He  was  still  chilled  and  uncomfortable.  She  would 
have  fire,  light,  luxury  ;  yet  he  was  unwilling  to  go. 

He  dropped  into  a  chair  under  the  eyes  of  the 
little  angel,  and  sat  there  staring  at  the  cold  grate. 
Presently  he  would  summon  up  energy  enough  to 
go  downstairs,  call  a  cab,  and  be  carried  away  to 
Clarges  Street.  He  shivered  and  turned  hot.  His 
head  swam.  He  wondered  if  he  was  going  to  be 
ill.  Why,  if  he  fell  ill  there  in  the  flat  which  had 

9 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

been  untenanted  so  long  he  might  die  alone  like  a 
rat  in  the  dark.  No  one  had  seen  him  come  back. 
If  he  were  to  die  it  might  be  months  before  they 
discovered  him. 

He  sweated  at  the  thought.  Then  he  was  dry 
and  hot  again,  and  he  heard  his  pulses  thudding  in 
his  ears.  The  Night  folded  her  shadows  in  the 
room.  If  he  were  going  to  die  it  must  not  be  in 
the  dark. 

He  tried  in  his  pocket  for  matches  and  found 
none.  He  felt  about  the  chimney-piece  among  the 
rubbish,  and  found  everything  but  matches.  Still 
there  was  surely  a  glory,  a  radiance  in  the  place. 
Ah,  he  saw  now  that  it  was  coming  from  the  face 
of  the  angel.  A  delusion,  of  course,  he  said  to  him- 
self, a  part  of  the  fever  that  was  coming  upon  him. 
Still  it  was  comforting.  He  could  see  the  face  of 
the  little  angel  plainly.  It  was  Mildred's  face  and 
it  smiled  upon  him. 

It  might  have  been  a  few  minutes  later,  it  might 
have  been  an  hour,  two  hours,  when  the  words 
that  were  thudding  in  his  brain  took  shape. 

"  Go  to  Mildred !  Go  to  Mildred !  "  He  heard 
the  words  quite  plainly,  and  the  voice  was  like  the 
voice  of  a  little  child. 

He  struggled  to  his  feet  and  went  down  the 
stairs,  holding  on  by  the  sides  because  his  head 

10 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

reeled.  He  heard  himself  giving  the  cabman  the 
old  beloved  address  as  he  might  have  heard  a 
stranger's  voice. 

A  little  while  later  Mildred  Chesham,  sitting  in 
her  room  which  was  like  a  shrine  of  good  woman- 
hood, heard  his  name  announced.  She  went  to 
meet  him  with  the  most  wonderful  smile.  It  was 
the  smile  of  the  little  angel.  She  held  out  her 
two  hands  to  him.  Before  he  could  reach  her  he 
stumbled.  "Ah!"  she  cried,  "you  are  ill,"  and 
the  compassion  in  her  voice  was  like  the  mother's. 
There  was  his  mirage  of  living  waters,  there  in  her 
breast.  He  had  found  it  at  last. 

A  year  later,  Waring  and  Mildred,  still  on  their 
leisurely  honeymoon — they  had  been  married  as 
soon  as  Waring  was  convalescent  from  his  illness — 
came  one  afternoon  of  summer  to  a  fishing- village 
in  the  North  of  France.  After  a  meal,  delicate 
and  dainty,  of  an  omelet,  a  chicken,  delicious  fruit, 
a  bottle  of  white  wine,  and  coffee,  they  strayed  out 
hand  in  hand  over  the  sand-hills.  They  had  not 
yet  forgotten  to  be  lovers. 

Amid  the  corn-fields  and  the  sand-dunes  they 
came  upon  a  tiny  chapel  open  to  the  sea-wind. 
They  had  been  talking  of  the  little  angel  who  had 
gone  with  them  on  all  their  wanderings.  When 

11 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

they  went  home  at  last  to  Wolvercote,  Waring 
said,  they  would  build  him  a  shrine.  He  would 
have  it  that  the  little  angel  had  brought  them 
together — would  bring  them  yet  to  greater  joys  if 
that  were  possible.  Wherever  they  went  Waring 
would  set  him  up  in  their  room  to  watch  over 
them.  He  was  beautiful  enough  to  be  a  miracle, 
Mildred  said,  when  Waring  talked  of  the  light  he 
had  seen  about  the  little  figure.  To  be  sure  that 
was  an  illusion  of  the  illness  which  was  creeping 
upon  him  ;  but  even  with  Mildred  the  child-angel 
had  found  a  place  in  her  heart,  perhaps  with  a 
premonition  of  the  child  that  was  to  come. 

Waring  had  been  talking  half- whimsically  of  the 
shrine  he  would  make.  They  stepped  across  the 
threshold  of  the  little  chapel  on  to  the  blue  and 
white  tiles  of  the  floor.  The  prie-dieus  overflowed 
into  the  open  air.  Within  there  was  only  space 
for  the  garish  little  altar  with  its  artificial  flowers, 
the  screen  behind  which  the  priest  vested  himself, 
and  a  dozen  chairs  at  most. 

As  they  went  in  the  full  western  light  streamed 
within  the  chapel.  As  they  looked  they  cried  out 
in  amazement.  On  a  little  side  altar,  with  a  row 
of  votive  tapers  in  front  of  it,  was  a  photograph  of 
the  little  angel.  There  was  no  mistaking  it ;  the 
tender  little  face,  the  praying  hands,  the  wings — 

12 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

why  the  very  chippings  were  reproduced   faith- 
fully. 

While  they  stared  in  amazement  the  small  cur6 
with  the  round  good-humoured  face  and  curly  hair, 
whom  they  had  already  saluted  in  the  village 
street,  came  in  behind  them.  There  were  a  couple 
of  boy  acolytes  following  him.  People  came  down 
from  the  village  and  took  the  chairs  outside  the 
chapel. 

Waring  turned  to  the  curd.  "  The  little  angel, 
monsieur?"  he  said,  indicating  the  picture.  "  I 
fancy  I  have  seen  it  before." 

"Alas!"  The  curt  was  vesting  himself  with 
characteristic  energy.  "  Monsieur  will  have  seen 
the  little  angel  in  former  years.  It  was  a  miracul- 
ous image  cast  up  by  the  sea.  It  had  wrought 
many  cures,  procured  many  favours.  It  was  the 
patron  of  the  village.  Alas,  it  is  five  years  ago 
since,  during  the  week  of  the  patronage,  the  chapel 
had  been  robbed,  stripped  bare.  And  with  every- 
thing else  had  gone  the  little  angel.  There  had 
been  bad  seasons  since,  storms  at  sea.  The  people 
were  desolated  for  the  little  angel.  While  he  was 
with  them  he  procured  them  many  graces." 

"  If  he  were  to  be  restored  !  "  Waring  was  ex- 
cited with  the  prospective  excitement  of  the  village 
at  the  restoration  of  its  angel. 

13 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

"  If  it  were  the  will  of  God  !  "  The  ourt  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  flung  out  his  hands.  Plainly  he 
expected  no  miracle. 

So  after  all  the  little  angel  went  back  to  his 
shrine  amid  the  sand-hills,  between  the  corn-fields 
and  the  sea,  where  he  yet  works  his  beneficent 
miracles.  And  Wolvercote  was  the  poorer.  War- 
ing had  the  little  angel  copied  in  yellow  Italian 
marble  and  gave  the  copy  the  shrine  he  would 
have  given  the  original.  But  it  is  not  the  same 
thing.  It  is  as  a  picture  of  a  dead  child  to  the  living 
child. 

Yet  after  all  the  angel  worked  the  great  miracle 
for  Waring.  And  year  after  year  the  simple  children 
of  the  little  angel  remember  him  at  the  shrine. 


AN  OLD  COUPLE. 

THE  misfortune  of  John  and  Ellen  Luff  was  that 
they  had  lived  too  long.  Their  mistress  before  she 
died  had  made  provision  for  them,  counting  that 
they  would  live  to  seventy-five  or  so.  But  now 
John  was  eighty- six  and  Ellen  was  eighty-two, 
and  the  provision  had  been  spent  ten  years  ago. 
During  the  greater  part  of  these  ten  years  they 
had  been  kept  alive  by  the  sixpences  collected  by 
a  charitable  soul  who  had  come  to  be  aware  of 
their  necessity.  But  now  their  benefactress  was 
gone.  Who  could  have  imagined  that  John  and 
Ellen  would  have  outlived  her?  And  there  was 
nothing  at  all  between  them  and  starvation. 

They  had  covered  up  their  poverty  jealously. 
Little  by  little  during  these  ten  years  they  had 
parted  with  the  pieces  of  furniture  which  old  Mrs. 
Kynaston  had  left  them  as  part  of  her  legacy. 

The  young  doctor  who  had  attended  John  for 
his  winter  bronchitis  had  taken  a  fancy  to  the 
Chippendale  wine  sarcophagus.  They  had  haggled 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

with  him  over  how  little  they  would  take  and  not 
how  much.  The  doctor  had  been  very  kind  to 
them.  He  had  given  them  medicine  and  nourish- 
ing things  out  of  his  own  pocket ;  and  had  accepted 
with  a  delicate  understanding  the  shillings  the  old 
man  paid  him  from  time  to  time  for  his  fees.  To 
be  sure  they  found  their  way  straight  back  to  the 
fund  collected  for  the  old  people  by  their  bene- 
factress. 

The  doctor  was  young  and  bright-eyed,  with  a 
kindly  and  humorous  shrewdness  of  expression  in 
his  keen,  clever  face.  He  was  on  his  probation 
down  here  in  this  slum  that  once  was  country. 
But  presently  he  knew  he  would  be  among  the 
great  men  in  Harley  Street  or  Cavendish  Square. 
He  knew  the  things  he  had  done  and  was  capable 
of  doing.  Meanwhile  he  was  poor  and  ambitious, 
a  glutton  for  work,  and  head  over  ears  in  love. 

The  love  affair  made  his  eyes  absent  as  he 
hurried  from  one  patient  to  another.  If  she  hadn't 
been  so  horribly  rich !  That  place  of  hers,  East- 
ney  Park,  stood  between  her  and  her  proud  lover. 
She  was  rich,  she  was  independent,  she  was  old 
enough  to  know  her  own  mind, — thirty  if  she 
was  a  day,  said  the  gossips — her  brown  eyes  had 
a  bewildering  softness  in  them  for  Dr.  Eichard 
Saville.  If  only  he  had  not  been  so  poor ! 

16 


AN  OLD  COUPLE 

This  day  of  spring  he  was  doing  something  most 
distasteful  to  himself.  He  was  trying  to  persuade 
the  old  couple  to  enter  the  workhouse.  The  old 
man  was  always  so  ill  in  the  east  winds  of  spring ; 
the  old  woman  was  growing  blind  and  helpless. 

He  looked  around  the  little  bare  empty  room, 
fireless  although  there  was  still  a  bite  in  the  air. 
There  was  a  slip  of  garden  outside.  The  cottage 
had  once  been  country  till  the  squalid  fringe  of  the 
city  had  overtaken  it  and  built  it  in.  There  were 
a  couple  of  apple-trees  in  the  garden  with  their 
tight  buds  just  ready  to  burst.  A  thrush  was 
singing  in  an  elm-tree  at  the  back;  and  a  large 
bright-eyed  blackbird  was  walking  about  on  the 
grass  plot  as  though  the  place  belonged  to  him. 

The  old  couple  were  very  fond  of  their  garden 
in  summer.  They  had  been  originally  country-folk. 
The  cottage  had  two  storeys.  A  crooked  staircase 
with  a  door,  the  latch  of  which  opened  on  a  string, 
ascended  to  the  upper  storey.  There  were  heavy 
beams  in  the  walls  and  ceiling.  The  place  was  a 
rebuke  to  the  hideous  little  yellow-brick  houses, 
with  all  their  noisy  inmates,  that  encroached  upon 
it. 

"It  is  not  so  bad  there,"  he  said,  looking  from 
one  old  face  to  the  other.     "  It  is  clean  and  bright 
and  the  nurses  are  kind." 
2  17 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

"I'd  rather  have  my  old  woman,"  said  John 
despairingly. 

"You  will  lie  in  a  soft  bed,  and  be  fed  with 
nourishing  things  and  kept  warm." 

That  matter  of  the  separation  of  the  two  was 
something  that  did  not  bear  talking  of. 

"  It  would  be  softer  in  the  grave  with  her  beside 
me,"  said  the  old  man. 

"0  Lord,  Lord,  why  didn't  you  take  me 
when  my  little  Jacky  was  born  !  "  moaned  the  old 
woman. 

The  young  doctor  went  out  feeling  their  discon- 
solateness  in  his  heart.  All  through  that  day  and 
its  busy  round  the  thought  of  them  came  between 
him  and  his  thoughts  of  Margaret.  He  imagined 
them  sitting  together  in  the  dimness  of  the  bare 
room.  The  old  woman  was  so  nearly  blind  that 
she  could  do  her  few  household  tasks  as  well  in  the 
dark  as  in  the  light.  How  cruel  it  seemed  to  part 
them !  And  yet  .  .  .  they  had  been  miserably 
pinched  on  those  few  shillings  a  week.  It  had  not 
been  so  bad  while  the  old  man  could  grow  a  few 
vegetables  and  the  old  woman  take  in  a  little  plain 
sewing;  but  now  it  was  miserably  inadequate. 
They  were  on  his  mind  lest  they  should  fall  into 
the  fire  or  down  the  steep  stairs.  They  were  not 
fit  to  be  left  alone.  Why  had  Death  forgotten 

18 


AN  OLD  COUPLE 

them  while  he  was  so  busy  with  his  harvest  of  the 
young  and  the  much  desired  ? 

The  thought  of  them  put  a  pucker  between  his 
brows,  even  while  he  sat  by  Margaret  Steele's  side 
at  dinner  that  evening.  The  hostess  had  sent 
them  down  together,  perhaps  being  aware  of  some- 
thing more  than  friendship  between  the  two. 
Usually  it  was  enough  of  Heaven  for  him  to  feel 
the  fragrance  of  Margaret's  presence  about  him. 
Her  dress  that  was  softer  than  down,  whiter  than 
the  swan's  breast,  the  white  roses  in  her  bosom, 
the  beautiful  profile,  the  velvety  brown  eyes,  the 
soft  pale  cheeks — their  nearness  usually  filled  him 
with  a  rapture  that  left  him  all  the  colder  and 
more  despairing  when  he  had  gone  out  of  that 
gracious  presence  and  remembered  his  own  poverty. 

He  crumbled  his  bread  absently  and  frowned. 
"  What  is  it,  Dr.  Saville  ?  "  said  her  exquisite  voice, 
close  to  his  ear.  "  You  are  in  trouble  about  some- 
thing. What  is  it  ?  " 

In  front  of  them  there  was  a  mass  of  growing 
lilies  of  the  valley,  the  electric  light  which  had 
been  pulled  low  down  making  transparencies  of 
their  leaves  and  blossoms.  He  turned  round  to 
her  and  felt  suddenly  as  though  the  world  had 
left  them  alone  in  a  blissful  isolation. 

He  had  no  thought  of  keeping  from  her  the 

19 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

thing  that  was  worrying  him.  She  had  the  key 
of  his  heart,  and  could  wring  from  him  every  secret 
except  one,  if  his  love  for  her  could  really  be  called 
a  secret. 

He  told  her  about  John  and  Ellen  Luff,  as  he 
had  seen  them  and  as  he  imagined  them.  "  Ah !  " 
she  said  softly  once  or  twice ;  and  there  was  a 
world  of  hurt  pity  in  the  exclamation.  Looking 
at  her  admiringly  he  thought  she  had  the  com- 
passion of  all  the  world  in  her  face. 

"  Cannot  something  be  done?"  she  asked,  when 
he  had  finished. 

He  prided  himself  on  his  common  sense,  and 
now  in  some  curious  phase  of  feeling  he  answered 
her  almost  roughly. 

"What  could  you  do?"  he  said.  "  Supposing 
we  paid  for  their  rent  and  keep,  and  for  some  one 
to  look  after  them,  we  should  have  no  guarantee 
that  it  would  be  properly  done.  No,  they  had 
better  be  where  they  would  receive  proper  care 
and  attention.  They  are  on  my  mind.  I  never 
knock  at  the  door  but  I  expect  to  hear  that  some- 
thing has  happened  to  one  of  them  since  I  was 
there  last.  The  old  man  ought  really  to  have  been 
in  the  infirmary  long  ago." 

She  said  no  more,  as  though  he  had  discouraged 
her.  They  talked  of  other  things,  of  the  newest 

20 


AN  OLD  COUPLE 

discoveries  in  science  and  medicine, —  the  things 
that  interested  him  most.  She  was  delightfully 
intelligent.  With  such  a  woman  for  his  Egeria 
what  might  not  a  man  do  ? 

"Well,"  he  said  to  the  old  couple  next  day, 
"  have  you  made  up  your  minds  ?  " 

They  seemed  to  him  to  lean  a  little  closer  to- 
gether, and  his  heart  smote  him. 

"  We've  been  talking  about  old  Madam,"  the  old 
man  said  irrelevantly.  "  It  'ud  trouble  her  where 
she  is  to  know  what's  befallen  us.  There  be  some 
folks  that  wish  for  length  of  days.  The  Lord  might 
ha'  took  us  while  we  were  yet  together." 

"Luff  drove  Madam's  daughter  to  the  church 
to  be  married,"  said  the  old  woman.  "And  I 
dressed  her  for  her  wedding.  If  Miss  Agatha  had 
lived  she'd  never  have  seen  us  brought  to  this." 

"I  suppose  Luff  has  had  his  broth,  Mrs.  Luff," 
said  the  doctor.  "  Yes  ?  I  hope  you  haven't  been 
giving  any  of  it  away  to  that  thriftless  Mrs.  Collier 
next  door,  as  you  did  last  time.  Come,  Mrs.  Luff, 
you'd  better  make  up  your  mind.  I  shouldn't  be 
able  to  look  after  you  much  longer,  for  I  think  of 
joining  an  expedition  to  South  Africa.  Sister 
Gertrude  in  the  infirmary  has  promised  me  to  be 
very  good  to  Luff.  At  your  side  of  the  house, 
Mrs.  Luff,  there  is  an  excellent  woman  in  charge. 

21 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

You'll  be  surprised  to  find  how  pleasant  it  all  is 
when  you  get  there,  and  will  wonder  why  you 
ever  dreaded  it  so  much." 

The  old  couple  seemed  as  if  they  had  not  heard 
this  well-meant  consolation. 

"You'll  be  ready  to  go, — Friday,  shall  we  say  ?  " 
Dr.  Saville  said  with  a  cheerfulness  he  was  far 
from  feeling. 

"  Oh,  aye,  it  might  as  well  be  Friday  as  another 
day,"  John  Luff  said.  "  Might  happen  the  Lord 
'ud  call  us  before  Friday." 

Dr.  Saville  went  away  heavy-hearted.  He 
called  to  thriftless  Mrs.  Collier  next  door  and 
gave  her  money  to  provide  a  good  fire  for  the  old 
people,  and  something  for  herself  to  light  it  and 
see  that  it  was  kept  going.  The  old  Luffs  had 
arrived  at  a  habit  of  economy  which  would  make 
them  stint  themselves  even  now  when  he  wanted 
them  to  be  prodigal. 

He  called  at  the  Co-operative  Stores  farther  on, 
and  sent  them  in  a  chicken,  some  bacon,  eggs  and 
butter  and  a  bottle  of  port  wine.  He  had  an  odd 
sense  of  making  reparation  for  his  cruelty  to  the 
old  couple.  But  after  all  it  was  for  the  best.  If 
they  could  be  kept  in  their  cottage  it  would  mean 
some  horrible  accident  one  of  these  days.  The 
thought  of  Mrs.  Luff  cooking,  and  blind  with  the 

22 


AN  OLD  COUPLE 

helplessness  of  those  who  have  always  had  their 
sight,  terrified  him.  Supposing  she  were  to  catch 
fire! 

And  he  had  very  nearly  made  up  his  mind  to 
join  the  African  expedition.  The  pursuit  of  the 
thing  that  caused  one  of  the  most  horrible  diseases 
into  the  deadly  swamp  where  it  lurked  was  fas- 
cinating to  him.  If  he  came  out  of  it  alive  it 

meant  reputation.  If  he  didn't Well,  he 

couldn't  go  to  Margaret  now  as  he  was.  He  must 
have  some  equivalent  for  Eastney  to  offer  her. 

The  old  couple  sat  as  he  had  left  them.  Even 
the  incursion  of  Mrs.  Collier  to  light  the  fire  did 
not  disturb  them,  nor  the  conversation  with  which 
she  accompanied  her  task.  When  she  had  gone 
away,  and  the  fire  had  lit  up  merrily,  the  comfort 
hardly  reached  their  physical  sense  through  the 
trouble  that  was  come  upon  them.  It  was  now 
Tuesday  afternoon,  and  on  Friday  they  were  to  go 
into  the  House.  They  had  just  three  days  to  be 
together,  three  days  in  which  the  Lord  might  call 
them. 

After  a  time  they  began  to  talk.  They  had  the 
memories  of  very  old  people  for  things  of  long  ago, 
while  things  of  yesterday  were  dim  to  them.  Old 
Madam  and  Miss  Agatha,  and  Miss  Agatha's  baby 
were  in  their  talk.  They  wished  now  they  had 

23 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

taken  the  lodge  and  the  pension  as  Madam  Kynas- 
ton  had  wished,  and  not  set  up  a  house  in  London 
to  take  in  lodgers,  a  venture  which  had  not  suc- 
ceeded at  all.  They  might  have  been  at  the  lodge 
to  this  day.  There  would  not  have  been  rent  to 
think  of  or  fires.  They  could  have  kept  fowls, 
and  had  milk  from  the  dairy  at  the  house.  That 
was  a  friendly  world  they  remembered.  There 
would  have  been  neighbours  and  neighbours' 
daughters  to  come  in  and  help.  London  was 
a  terribly  unneighbourly  place. 

John  remembered  how  he  had  superintended 
Miss  Margot's  first  riding-lessons.  He  recalled 
her  in  her  blue  habit,  the  fair  hair  falling  about 
her  shoulders,  her  spirit,  her  generosity,  her 
daring. 

A  boy  came  and  knocked  at  the  door  and  de- 
livered the  doctor's  gifts.  Old  Ellen  was  usually 
the  most  stirring  of  mortals,  considering  her  more 
than  eighty  years,  but  now  she  let  the  things  lie  on 
the  table,  while  she  and  John  went  over  and  over 
those  good  days  in  the  past.  In  three  days'  time 
^ach  of  them  would  be  alone.  There  would  be  the 
unhomely  white  walls  of  the  infirmary.  Ellen 
had  been  there  once  or  twice  to  see  people.  There 
would  be  the  strange,  masterful  nurses :  and  the 
old  people  who  would  have  no  such  honourable 

24 


AN  OLD  COUPLE 

memories  of  the  past  as  belonged  to  her  and 
John. 

If  but  the  Lord  would  call  them  before  Friday 
was  come ! 

"  'Tis  like  when  I  sat  under  the  apple-tree  last 
summer,"  said  John,  stretching  his  fingers  to  the 
blaze.  "  It  makes  me  sleepy- like  same  as  long  ago 
the  bees  in  the  hives  in  the  garden.  JPhere  was  a 
sunny  corner  back  of  the  lodge  where  we  might 
have  kept  bees." 

There  was  a  sudden  tapping  at  the  door,  and  a 
lady  came  in,  bringing  a  smell  of  violets  with  her, 
The  east  wind  blew  aridly  outside,  and  she  was 
wearing  furs  over  her  purple  dress.  She  glowed 
in  them  as  palely  warm  as  a  white  rose  that  has 
a  flush  in  it. 

Old  Ellen  got  up  and  set  her  a  chair.  She 
flashed  a  quick  glance  around  the  room,  almost 
empty  of  furniture.  Her  eyes  took  in  the  parcels 
on  the  table.  Then  went  on  to  the  wondering 
faces  of  the  old  couple. 

"  Dr.  Saville  is  a  friend  of  mine,"  she  said  softly. 
Her  voice  was  as  sweet  as  her  face.  "  He  has  told 
me  about  you.  Your  names  are  John  and  Ellen 
Luff.  I  think  you  must  once  have  lived  with  my 
grandmother,  Mrs.  Kynaston,  of  Eastney  Park, 
Hampshire." 

25 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

"It  isn't  Miss  Margot?"  said  John  incredu- 
lously, while  Ellen  came  nearer  and  peered  with 
her  blind  eyes  into  the  beautiful  delicate  face. 

"Yes,  I  am  Miss  Margot.  I  remember  quite 
well  how  you  taught  me  to  ride,  John.  And  I 
remember  you,  Ellen,  displaying  my  grandmother's 
finery  for  my  delight  on  wet  afternoons.  I  liked 
you  better  than  my  nurse  ;  and  I  remember  once 
how  we  had  out  all  the  furniture  of  my  doll's  house, 
and  gave  it  a  thorough  spring  cleaning.  Do  you 
remember  that,  Ellen  ?  " 

"  For  sure  I  do,  Miss  Margot.  Many  a  time  me 
and  Luff  have  talked  about  it." 

"I  oughtn't  to  have  lost  sight  of  you,"  she  went 
on,  looking  from  one  face  to  the  other.  "  Only  we 
spent  so  many  years  abroad.  And  I  thought,  I 
thought " 

"  We  didn't  ought  to  have  lived  as  long,  Miss 
Margot,"  cried  John  apologetically. 

She  laughed  softly,  and  her  eyes  were  dimned. 

"Ah,  well,  I  am  very  glad  you  have  lived,"  she 
said,  "  and  most  grateful  to  Dr.  Saville  for  finding 
you  for  me." 

"John  wouldn't  be  here  only  for  him.  The 
bottles  of  wine  he's  sent  and  the  medicines  !  We 
had  no  fire  to-day  till  he  sent  it.  And  all  these 
things  from  the  Co-operative,"  Ellen  vaguely  in- 


AN  OLD  COUPLE 

dicated    the    table.       "  May    the    Lord    reward 
him ! " 

Miss  Margot  glowed  more  than  ever,  and  leant 
forward  a  little  over  her  huge  muff.  The  fire 
sparkled  in  the  jewels  that  clasped  her  sable  stole, 
and  set  up  other  fires  in  the  depths  of  her  eyes. 

"And  now,"  she  said,  "wouldn't  you  like  to 
come  back  to  Eastney  ?  The  west  lodge  is  empty, 
but  it  is  in  order,  and  you  can  come  at  once.  I 
have  a  woman  who  will  look  after  you  both  and  see 
that  Ellen  hasn't  too  much  to  do.  And  we  have  all 
the  summer  before  us.  What  do  you  think  of  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Lord,"  said  John,  "  and  we  were  to  have 
gone  into  the  House  on  Friday." 

"We  asked  Him  to  call  us,"  said  Ellen,  "but  He 
has  done  it  in  His  own  way.  Back  at  Eastney 
before  we  die  !  It  makes  me  young  to  think  on  it ! " 

"  I  must  see  Dr.  Saville  and  ask  him  if  I  may 
arrange  for  you  to  leave  to-morrow.  I  have  only 
to  send  word  to  Eastney  and  all  will  be  ready. 
I  will  come  back  and  tell  you  what  Dr.  Saville 
says." 

"  We  thought  we  were  to  be  friendless  and  for- 
gotten,— the  doctor  going  off  to  that  Africa,  where 
more  likely  than  not  he'll  leave  his  bones,"  said 
Ellen.  "  We  little  thought  the  Lord  was  sending 
us  you/' 

27 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

"  Africa ! "  Miss  Margot  repeated  in  a  startled 
way.  "  Who  said  he  was  going  to  Africa  ?  " 

"  Himself,  sitting  in  that  very  chair  this  morning." 

"  I  will  come  back  and  tell  you  what  he  says," 
said  Miss  Margot,  rising  up  with  a  soft  rustle.  "  A 
carriage  shall  come  for  you,  so  that  you"  won't  be 
exposed  to  the  east  wind.  Now,  good-bye  for  a 
little  while." 

Though  she  kept  her  voice  quiet  she  was  wild 
with  fear.  Could  it  be  true  that  he  was  going 
away  from  her  to  that  deadly  malarial  country  ? 
She  remembered  now  that  he  had  talked  of  the 
expedition  the  other  night.  If  he  went  her  heart 
would  go  with  him.  If  he  never  returned  she 
would  be  his  to  her  grave.  But  before  he  went, 
if  he  must  go,  she  must  hear  him  say  that  he  loved 
her.  Without  it  how  could  she  endure  her  life  ? 
She  must  hear  him  say  it,  and  afterwards  she 
thought  that  she  could  endure  anything  else  that 
befel.  If  he  were  only  hers  and  she  his  she  could 
bear  anything  that  was  to  come. 

She  was  shown  into  his  consulting-room,  where 
he  sat  writing  busily  at  a  table.  The  room  was 
fundamentally  dreary,  with  its  dusty  carpet,  .its 
heavy  rep  curtains  and  wire  screens  to  the  win- 
dows, its  fire  almost  out,  its  general  air  of  neglect  and 
dust,  as  dreary  as  the  mean  street  outside  swept 

28 


AN  OLD  COUPLE 

by  the  east  wind.  Yet  to  her  it  was  beautiful 
because  he  was  there.  It  was  ^nough  for  the 
moment  that  they  were  alone  in  sach  a  solitude  as 
they  had  never  known  before. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  little  cry  of  delight 
at  beholding  her.  The  white  lids  veiled  her  con- 
scious eyes ;  the  colour  flamed  in  her  cheeks. 

"  You  will  wonder  why  on  earth  I  have  come," 
she  said. 

"For  the  moment  it  is  enough  that  you  are 
come,"  he  said,  setting  a  chair  for  her  with  an 
exhilarated  laugh.  This  sudden  coming  of  hers 
had  put  him  off  his  balance.  The  smell  of  her 
violets  was  heady,  intoxicating. 

"  I  came  down  to  see  your  old  people,  John  and 
Ellen  Luff.  They  proved  to  be,  as  I  thought  they 
might  when  you  told  me  their  names,  old  servants 
of  my  grandmother's.  They  are  not  going  to  the 
workhouse.  They  are  going  back  to  Eastney 
Park.  They  will  have  a  lodge  to  themselves,  and 
a  woman  I  am  interested  in,  a  widow,  to  see  that 
they  don't  fall  into  the  fire.  I  came  to  ask  you 
when  they  might  go.  To-morrow  ?  " 

"They  must  have  thought  you  were  an  angel," 
he  said.  "  They  may  go  whenever  they  are  ready. 
The  sooner  they  are  out  of  their  present  abode  the 
better, — Eastney  will  be  Heaven." 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

She  looked  down  at  the  muff  in  her  lap  and  a 
quiver  of  agitation  passed  over  her  face.  She 
opened  her  lips  as  though  to  speak  once  or  twice, 
and  he  had  an  idea  that  her  hands  clasped  each 
other  nervously  in  the  covering  of  the  muff. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  asked.    "  What  is  it— dear  ?  " 

"  They  told  me  you  were  going  to  Africa,"  she 
said,  "  to  that  place  you  told  me  of  the  other  night. 
Let  some  one  else  do  it,  some  one  who  has  less  to 
live  for.  Not  you.  You  mustn't  go.  I  should — 
I  should " 

She  burst  suddenly  into  tears  and  hid  her  face. 
Then  she  was  sobbing  in  his  arms. 

"What  must  you  think  of  me?"  she  said,  amid 
her  sobs. 

"  What  must  you  think  of  me?  I  never  meant 
to  have  spoken,  till  I  had  done  something.  A  rich 
woman  like  you,  Margaret !  But  now,  if  you  had 
not  come  I  should  have  been  strong — now,  you 
have  done  something  you  never  can  undo,  Mar- 
garet. You  have  made  me  tell  you  that  I  am 
yours  for  ever." 

' '  Your  eyes  told  me  that  long  ago.  But  I  thought 
you  never  would  speak.  I  was  starved  to  hear  you 
say  it." 

"You  shall  hear  me  say  it  till  the  day  of  my 
death." 

30 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  SOLOMON. 

WALKING  up  and  down  his  garden  between  the 
rows  of  July  lilies  that  shed  their  golden  pollen  on 
him  as  he  brushed  them,  Father  James  sighed 
in  perplexity. 

He  sighed,  and  now  and  again  he  inhaled  a 
pinch  of  snuff.  It  was  "  Best  Blackguard  "  ; 
but  it  might  as  well  have  been  dust  for  all  the 
pleasure  it  gave  Father  James. 

His  two  dogs,  Rex  and  Prince,  walked  soberly 
by  the  side  of  the  shabby  cassock.  Generally 
they  and  Father  James  could  pass  an  hour  pleas- 
antly together.  He  had  taught  them  so  many 
tricks,  and  he  could  always  be  won  to  laughter, 
as  fresh  as  a  child's,  by  putting  the  dogs  through 
their  repertoire.  But  now  they  might  not  have 
existed  for  him.  Prince,  who  was  the  younger  of 
the  dogs,  and  had  had  a  circus  poodle  for  his 
grandmother,  had  turned  a  somersault  or  two  in 
Father  James's  path.  But  seeing  that  the  old 
>riest  took  no  notice  of  him  he  had  given  up  the 

31 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

attempt  to  entertain  and  walked  as  sedately  as 
Kex,  whose  increasing  figure  had  put  somersaults 
out  of  the  question  for  him  this  long  time  back. 

It  was  very  pleasant  in  the  walled  garden,  sweet 
with  the  scent  of  the  lilies  and  the  old-fashioned 
cabbage  roses.  Now  and  again  came  a  rich  fruity 
whiff  from  the  direction  of  the  white  house  that 
showed  beyond  the  gnarled  apple-boughs.  Eliza 
Doyle,  Father  James's  housekeeper,  was  making 
raspberry  jam  in  the  kitchen. 

Now  and  again  as  she  brought  a  steaming  pan- 
ful to  cool  on  the  table  by  the  window  she  stood 
a  second  or  two  to  watch  the  pacing  figure  beyond 
the  tangle  of  apple-boughs. 

"  He's  got  something  on  his  mind,"  she  thought. 
"  Lord  send  there's  nothing  wrong  with  Master 
James.  'Tis  a  while  since  he's  come  to  see  us : 
and  there  was  that  hussy  yesterday.  I  didn't  like 
the  looks  of  her  somehow." 

Then  she  smiled,  for  she  remembered  how  fond 
Master  James  was  of  raspberry  jam,  and  certain 
boyish  raids  of  his  on  her  store-cupboard. 

"  Sure,"  she  thought  again,  "  sure  you've  only 
to  look  in  the  coaxing  face  of  him  to  forgive  him, 
no  matter  what  he  does." 

James  Lester  was  Father  James  Barren's 
nephew,  his  only  sister's  only  child,  and  dear  to 

32 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  SOLOMON 

his  uncle's  heart  as  if  he  had  been  his  own  child. 
It  was  quite  surprising  what  a  difference  it  had 
made  to  Father  James,  his  possession  of  a  scape- 
grace nephew.  Jim  had  been  given  over  altogether 
to  his  uncle  at  six  years  old,  when  his  mother 
died.  Father  James  had  brought  him  up.  The 
child  and  boy  had  been  such  a  joy  to  him  that  he 
had  often  wondered  why  he  should  have  been 
selected  for  so  much  happiness  above  his  fellows. 
The  lot  of  other  priests  was  a  lonely  and  barren 
one  compared  with  his.  ''You  see  I'm  a  family 
man,"  he  used  to  say  roguishly  to  the  other  priests. 
And  indeed  his  vicarious  fatherhood  had  all  the 
joys,  all  the  possible  sorrows  of  real  fatherhood. 

Every  one  loved  Jim  Lester  as  every  one  loved 
Father  James.  Allowing  for  some  forty  years  of 
difference  in  their  ages  they  were  strikingly  alike. 
Time  had  been  when  Father  James's  thinning 
curls  had  been  like  his  nephew's,  golden-brown 
and  plentiful.  The  priest's  eyes  yet  were  nearly 
as  blue  as  the  lad's.  Both  faces  had  the  expression 
of  a  quiet  and  roguish  humour.  Father  James 
was  old  enough  to  have  had  continental  train- 
ing, and  although  he  was  only  a  farmer's  son  he 
was  a  fine  gentleman.  Perhaps  it  was  because  of 
their  association  together  that  Jim  Lester  had  learnt 
his  uncle's  ways.  He  had  a  charming  way  with 

3  33 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

women,  not  common  among  his  class.  No  wonder 
that  girls  had  been  in  love  with  him  from  the  time 
he  began  to  make  love,  and  that  was  very  early  in 
his  career. 

Jim  had  flitted  about  from  girl  to  girl  as  the  bee 
from  flower  to  flower.  It  had  not  made  his  uncle 
seriously  uneasy.  Jim  had  flirted  so  openly,  so 
universally,  that  hitherto  he  had  escaped  the  con- 
sequences of  his  flirtations.  Father  James  had 
almost  ceased  to  be  anxious.  He  could  remember 
a  time,  before  he  had  known  that  the  Church  was 
his  only  love,  when  he  had  been  gay  and  irrespon- 
sible among  the  girls  himself.  He  could  trust  Jim, 
he  thought,  not  to  do  any  harm,  not  to  hurt  any 
one.  Why  Jim  was  the  softest-hearted  fellow  alive. 
Ask  the  dogs  if  he  wasn't  ?  Ask  the  animals  that 
had  the  good  luck  to  depend  on  him.  Ask  the 
children  and  the  old  people  in  the  village.  There 
was  no  harm  in  the  boy.  No  harm  at  all,  Father 
James  had  said  fondly  over  and  over  to  himself. 

Then,  trouble  had  come.  Jim  had  done  worse 
than  Father  James  ever  expected  of  him.  He  had 
entangled  himself  with  two  girls.  And  each  had 
brought  her  claim  to  Father  James.  And  for  the 
life  of  him  he  could  not  tell  which  had  the  better 
claim  to  the  scapegrace. 

Jim  had  helped  him  but  little.     He  had  been 

34 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  SOLOMON 

unlike  himself,  something  of  a  mystery.  He  had 
been  sullen  like  a  child  in  trouble,  i  as,  it  was  quite 
true  that  he  had  engaged  himself  to  Eose  Maguire 
while  he  was  up  in  Dublin  studying  for  a  profes- 
sion. He  had  given  her  a  ring.  People  knew 
about  it.  He  had  asked  her  father's  consent. 
They  had  been  about  together  as  an  engaged 
couple. 

On  the  other  hand  there  was  Nora  Fay.  Nora 
was  a  girl  in  a  shop,  much  humbler  than  Eose. 
He  had  never  intended  to  go  so  far  with  Nora. 
He  was  engaged  to  Eose  at  the  time.  Eose  had 
been  masterful  and  exacting ;  and  Nora  was  gentle 
and  sweet  and  soft.  He  had  taken  refuge  with 
Nora,  and  things  had  gone  too  far  between  them. 
He  was  fit  to  shoot  himself  when  he  thought  of 
hurting  Nora. 

He  looked  oddly  haggard  by  the  time  his  uncle 
had  extracted  so  much  from  him. 

"  Of  course  Eose  has  the  right,"  he  said,  "  but  no 
matter  what  happens  Nora  shan't  suffer.  Eose  can 
cover  me  with  disgrace.  Every  one  will  think  me 
a  dishonourable  cur ;  but,  after  all,  Eose  will  not 
suffer  as  Nora  would.  She's  a  splendid  girl.  She 
could  marry  any  one  she  liked.  I  shall  have  made 
Dublin  too  hot  to  hold  me  when  I  throw  over 
Eose.  They  have  so  many  friends.  What  matter  ? 

35 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

I  shall  have  Nora.  I  am  sorry,  Uncle  James,  for 
being  such  a  disappointment  and  trouble  to  you. 
I'll  fling  it  all  up  and  go  to  Australia.  Nora 
won't  mind.  It  won't  be  like  taking  Eose  into 
poverty." 

"  Eose  might  release  you,"  Father  James  said, 
looking  with  a  tenderness  that  hurt  his  heart  at 
the  haggard  young  face. 

"  Oddly  enough,  she  will  not,"  the  boy  re- 
sponded with  a  sudden  flush.  "God  knows  why 
she  thinks  me  worth  the  keeping,  but  she  does." 

"  You  know?" 

"Yes,  I  know." 

Father  James  mused  with  his  cheek  upon  his 
hand.  In  a  lower  social  environment  than  that  to 
which  Miss  Eose  Maguire  belonged  Father  James 
had  known  a  sum  of  money  to  prove  a  solatium  for 
a  broken  heart.  It  was  unlikely  that  the  young 
lady  could  be  moved  by  such  poor  considerations 
as  had  affected  her  humbler  sisters.  Still,  there  was 
no  knowing.  If  it  had  to  be,  if  Jim's  happiness 
lay  with  Nora  and  not  with  Eose,  Father  James 
was  inclined  to  dare  much  to  secure  it.  And  there 
was  a  little  nest-egg  in  the  savings-bank, — all 
Father  James  could  spare  from  the  poor  and  his 
own  few  personal  wants — slowly  gathered  year  by 
year  since  Jim  had  been  a  little  child,  and  helped 

86 


THE  JUDGMENT, OF  SOLOMON 

of  late  by  a  bequest  to  Father  James  over  and 
above  the  money  for  the  poor  arid  for  masses. 

Jim  knew  nothing  about  the  nest-egg.  He  was 
not  to  know  till  the  moment  came  when  the  nest- 
egg  should  be  of  great  value  to  him — should  open 
him  some  door,  purchase  for  him  some  unhoped-for 
step,  accomplish  some  wonder  for  him.  Perhaps 
the  moment  had  come  now.  It  would  hurt  Father 
James  to  reduce  or  to  part  with  the  nest-egg ; — it 
was  impossible  to  say  what  a  fine  young  lady's 
demands  might  not  be,  if  she  should  stoop  to 
accepting  money  instead  of  a  lover. 

Father  James  wanted  to  think.  He  wanted  to 
think  and  to  act  quietly,  without  Jim's  miserable 
eyes  upon  him. 

It  was  the  Long  Vacation.  While  the  matter 
was  unsettled  Jim  was  better  away.  Father  James 
did  not  like  the  look  of  the  young  face,  oddly  un- 
familiar with  its  rebellious,  unhappy  air.  All  of  a 
sudden  Jim  had  come  to  his  manhood.  It  was 
no  longer  the  gay  and  debonair  boy  his  uncle  had 
to  deal  with.  A  passing  thought  came  to  Father 
James  that  if  Jim  were  well  through  this  he  would 
be  a  better  man  for  the  experience.  It  was  time 
for  the  things  of  childhood  to  be  given  up  and  the 
affairs  of  manhood  to  take  their  place. 

"  Father  Denis  wants  you,  Jim,"  his  uncle  said 
37 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

softly.  "  I've  a  letter  from  him  in  my  pocket  here 
saying  he  hoped  you'd  go  to  him  for  a  bit  of  the 
vacation.  Go  to  him  now  instead  of  coming  home 
with  me.  Let  me  think  the  matter  out  in  quietness. 
You're  not  looking  over-well,  Jim.  The  sea  air 
will  do  you  no  harm." 

For  a  moment  the  boy  looked  hopeful,  as  though 
he  had  had  a  respite,  before  his  face  clouded  again. 

"  You  wish  me  to  go  ?  "  he  asked  shortly. 

"  Yes,  Jim,  I  wish  you  to  go.  There's  no  use  in 
your  coming  home  with  me  now.  You  have  your 
bag  packed.  Go  off  to  Father  Denis  and  let  things 
be  for  a  bit.  Perhaps  we'll  find  a  way  out  of  it." 

Again  Jim's  face  brightened.  So  often  Uncle 
James  had  found  a  way  out  of  his  childish  and 
boyish  escapades.  Still  he  went  half-unwillingly 
on  the  visit  to  Father  Denis  in  the  wild  Northern 
Glen.  The  new-found  manhood  in  him  wanted  to 
stay  and  see  the  thing  out.  Something  prevented 
Father  James  telling  him  that  he  was  going  to  try 
what  he  could  do.  This  new,  mysterious  Jim 
might  resent  being  acted  for. 

Father  James  had  seen  Miss  Eose  Maguire. 
She  was  a  tall  girl,  with  a  hard  handsome  face,  so 
finely  dressed  that  she  had  set  the  village  gaping 
as  she  came  through  it  from  the  railway  station. 
She  had  turned  Rex  out  of  the  chair  in  which  he 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  SOLOMON 

was  curled,  comfortably  asleep.  Before  she  took 
his  place  she  had  looked  at  the  r  1:  lir  as  though  to 
say  she  did  not  care  to  occupy  it  after  him ;  but 
Prince  was  in  the  only  other  comfortable  chair  in 
the  room. 

Her  sweeping  glance  took  in  the  deficiencies  of 
the  room,  the  threadbare  carpet,  the  shabby  book- 
case, the  cheap  prints  on  the  wall,  the  spotted 
mirror  above  the  mantelpiece,  the  ormolu  clock 
which  had  long  ceased  to  keep  time.  Finally  it 
rested  on  Father  James  who  was  watching  her 
with  a  gentle  air  of  expectancy.  There  was  that 
about  her  which  made  him  suddenly  aware  that 
he  had  dropped  his  snuff  on  his  cassock.  He 
brushed  it  away  unhurriedly. 

"Well?"  he  asked,  with  an  air  of  quiet  interest. 

"  You  wished  to  see  me,"  she  said.  "  I  did  not  feel 
that  there  was  very  much  to  add  to  what  I  said 
in  my  letter.  I  am  engaged  to  your  nephew,  but 
he  is  neglecting  me.  I  don't  know  when  he  has 
been  to  see  us.  Of  course  people  are  talking." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Father  James,  looking  at  her 
as  though  from  a  distance,  while  he  drew  Rex's 
silky  ears  between  his  fingers.  "  Yes,  yes,  I  see. 
I  am  surprised  at  Jim.  I  sent  him  to  Dublin  to 
pursue  his  studies." 

"  There  is  no  reason  why  he  should  not  do  that 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

too,"  said  the  young  lady  sourly.  "In  fact  his 
engagement  ought  to  be  an  incentive  to  him.  He 
promised  me  that  he  would  work  hard  to  provide 
such  a  home  for  me  as  I've  been  accustomed  to. 
It  wasn't  what  my  people  expected,  that  I  should 
become  engaged  to  a  medical  student  in  his  first 
year.  Many  of  my  friends  think  I  am  wasting  my 
time.  You  see  I  could  do  much  better." 

"Naturally,"  assented  Father  James,  with  the 
tips  of  his  fingers  together. 

His  agreement  with  her  seemed  to  act  as  an 
encouragement  to  the  young  lady.  She  talked 
quickly,  fluently,  so  fluently  that  Father  James 
blinked  his  eyes  as  though  in  face  of  a  heavy 
shower.  She  said  the  same  thing  over  and  over 
again  in  many  different  ways.  She  might  have 
done  much  better  than  Jim,  but  since  she  had  ac- 
cepted him  and  all  the  people  knew  it  there  was 
no  going  back.  Father  James  must  make  his 
nephew  do  his  duty  by  Miss  Maguire.  She  was 
no  more  prepared  for  a  long,  indefinite  engagement 
than  she  was  for  being  an  old  maid.  Couldn't 
Father  James  help  them?  He  had  no  one,  she 
understood,  but  Jim.  If  he  had  her  by  his  side  it 
would  be  an  incentive  to  Jim  to  work.  She  would 
see  that  he  worked. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Father  James,  interrupting 

40 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  SOLOMON 

the  steady  flood,  "  if  you  knew  my  nephew  did 
not  love  you  as  a  man  should  IOT.  e  his  wife,  would 
you  still  be  willing  to  marry  him  ?  ' 

Miss  Maguire  stared. 

"It  is  not  likely,"  she  said  with  some  indigna- 
tion ;  "  but  if  it  were  so  I  should  still  be  willing  to 
marry  him." 

"  Would  you  hold  him  to  his  engagement  if  he 
cared  for  another  girl  more  than  for  you, — if  his 
happiness  was  wrapped  up  in  another  girl? " 

"I  should  certainly  hold  him  to  his  engage- 
ment." 

Father  James  sighed. 

"That  is  your  engagement-ring,  I  presume?" 
he  asked,  indicating  a  half-hoop  of  pearls  and 
diamonds  upon  the  young  lady's  square-tipped 
third  finger. 

"  It  is ;  "  she  held  it  for  his  inspection. 

"  Jim  never  had  much  money,"  he  said,  as 
though  to  himself. 

Miss  Maguire  flushed  angrily,  but  before  she 
could  find  words  to  refute  the  vague  accusation  of 
the  priest's  words,  he  spoke  again. 

"Supposing  that  your  engagement  comes  to 
nothing,"  he  asked,  his  eyes  watching  her,  "it 
cannot  matter  to  you  whether  he  marries  another 
girl  or  not." 

41 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

" But  it  does,"  she  panted.  "If  he  marries 
another  girl  I  will  make  him  pay  for  it." 

"You  would  think  it  worse  that  he  should  do 
that,  loving  the  girl,  than  that  he  should  remain 
unmarried  ?  " 

"  Am  I  to  be  a  laughing-stock  to  the  people  who 
know  of  our  engagement  ?  " 

"If  you  were  to  ...  excuse  me,  but  sometimes 
unpleasant  things  have  to  be  said  ...  if  you  were 
to  bring  my  nephew  into  court  the  amount  of 
damages  would  be  problematical." 

"  Not  in  my  case,"  she  flashed  at  him ;  "  I  have 
no  fear  of  the  result." 

No  wonder  that  Father  James  was  perplexed 
after  this  interview.  On  the  one  hand  there  was 
Miss  Kose  Maguire,  whom  he  certainly  did  not 
like,  but  there  was  nothing  against  the  girl  either 
personally  or  socially.  In  fact  she  belonged  to  a 
highly  reputable  family  which  had  a  good  social 
standing.  The  girl  herself  was  highly  esteemed, 
The  revelation  of  vulgarity  in  her  had  been  a  shock 
to  Father  James. 

On  the  other  hand  there  was  Nora  Fay,  a  girl 
in  a  shop.  Would  not  her  connections,  if  she  did 
not,  drag  down  Jim,  who  was  inclined  to  be  facile 
and  too  good-natured?  A  marriage  beneath  him 
would  be  a  black  mark  against  Jim  presently  when 

42 


THE  JUDGMENT  OP  SOLOMON 

he  was  qualified  and  trying  to  make  a  practice.  It 
would  hinder  him  as  much  as  a  marriage  with  Eose 
Maguire  would  help  him,  for  the  Maguires  were 
ambitious  and  hospitable :  they  had  many  friends  : 
the  ramifications  of  the  family  and  its  connection 
were  far-reaching. 

"  Your  Reverence,"  said  Eliza  Doyle  at  his  elbow. 
''There's  a  young  woman  at  the  door  waiting  to 
speak  to  your  Reverence." 

To  be  sure,  it  was  Saturday  afternoon,  and  he 
had  asked  Nora  Fay  to  come  when  she  was  free. 
Doubtless  this  was  she.  The  shops  closed  early 
on  Saturday.  He  noticed  the  disparagement  in 
the  housekeeper's  tone.  "  A  young  woman  ". 
Perhaps  the  poor  girl  had  walked  from  town.  If 
she  had  it  was  a  hot  dusty  road  she  had  taken. 

He  hurried  in,  carrying  a  deal  of  the  golden 
pollen  on  his  cassock.  The  blinds  were  down  in 
his  parlour,  and  it  was  almost  dark,  and  deliciously 
cool  coming  in  out  of  the  glare  of  the  sun.  The 
blinds  flapped  in  the  summer  wind  and  stirred 
the  modest  muslin  curtains.  There  was  some  one 
sitting  in  one  of  the  least  comfortable  chairs,  who 
would  have  stood  up  at  Father  James's  entrance 
if  it  had  not  been  that  Rex  sprang  into  her  lap. 

"  There,  my  child,  never  mind  him,"  said  Father 
James,  taking  into  his  own  hand  a  hand  that 

43 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

trembled  and  was  damp.  "  He's  a  spoilt  dog.  He 
jumped  into  the  Eeverend  Mother's  lap  at  the 
convent  the  other  day.  She  nearly  fainted.  She 
doesn't  like  dogs,  and  I'm  afraid  I'm  an  unwelcome 
visitor  with  these  two  rascals  at  my  heels.  They 
always  sit  in  the  velvet  chairs  and  when  she  turns 
them  out  they  have  a  roll  and  a  tumble  on  her  best 
carpet." 

He  chuckled  to  himself  at  the  reminiscence. 
The  blind  flapped  a  little  way  into  the  room  and 
the  light  fell  on  the  girl's  face.  She  was  looking 
at  Father  James  with  wide  eyes  of  terror.  There 
were  purple  rings  about  them,  and  the  veins  in  her 
forehead  were  too  blue.  But  it  was  a  soft  face,  an 
innocent  and  gentle  face.  The  look  of  fear  in  it 
smote  Father  James  as  though  a  child  or  an  animal 
were  terrified  of  him.  He  had  a  glimpse  of  things 
he  had  renounced.  He  could  imagine  how  good  it 
would  be  for  a  lad,  aye,  or  a  man,  to  turn  away 
from  handsome  black-browed  Eose  to  the  consola- 
tion of  this  gentle  creature. 

" Please,  Father,  I  am  .  .  ."  she  began,  and 
could  scarcely  speak  for  trembling. 

"  To  be  sure,  you  are  Nora  Fay,"  Father  James 
said  reassuringly. 

He  went  and  pulled  up  the  blind  a  little  and 
coming  back  he  sat  down  where  he  could  see  her. 

44 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  SOLOMON 

She  was  poorly  dressed  but  with  great  neatness. 
Like  most  short-sighted  people  Father  James  could 
make  astonishing  discoveries  sometimes.  He  dis- 
covered now  that  Nora  Fay's  gloves  were  darned 
at  the  finger-tips  ;  that  her  little  black,  thread-bare 
jacket  was  too  dingy  for  the  time  of  year,  that  her 
skirt  was  faded  and  of  poor  stuff.  She  had  a  little 
cheap  black  hat ;  but  Father  James  had  an  idea  that 
a  lad  would  not  have  thought  of  the  hat  because 
of  the  pale,  gold  hair  beneath  it  and  the  tender  and 
innocent  face.  There  was  dust  on  her  shoes  and 
her  skirt ;  and  no  doubt  heat  and  fatigue  had  done 
their  part  in  making  her  paler  than  she  usually 
was. 

"  You've  walked  from  town,  my  poor  child,"  he 
said,  "  and  you're  tired.  Now,  wouldn't  you  like 
a  cup  of  tea?  " 

She  looked  her  grateful  assent. 

There  were  no  bells  in  Father  James's  establish- 
ment, and  he  had  usually  to  carry  his  own  messages 
to  the  kitchen. 

"I  want  tea,  Eliza,"  he  said,  coming  in  on  the 
good  woman,  "  and  a  drop  of  cream  for  it,  and  a 
new-laid  egg,  and  some  of  the  raspberry  jam  you've 
been  making.  And  a  few  of  your  griddle  cakes 
could  come  in  handy ;  my  visitor  has  had  a  long 
walk." 

45 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

"  It'll  take  time  to  bake  the  griddle  cakes, 
Father." 

"  Never  mind  that."  Father  James  had  an  idea 
that  his  visitor  would  enjoy  her  tea  better  when 
there  had  been  an  explanation  between  them.  He 
did  not  want  the  explanation  to  be  disturbed  by  the 
coming  and  going  of  Eliza  Doyle,  so  he  added 
with  great  cunning  :  "  and  I'll  tell  you  what,  Eliza. 
Put  the  tea  in  the  summer-house  in  the  garden. 
And  when  you're  ready  for  us,  just  ring  your  little 
bell." 

When  he  returned  to  the  parlour  he  was  pleased 
to  see  that  his  visitor  had  somewhat  recovered 
herself.  Apparently  she  had  dreaded  an  unfriendly 
reception,  and  had  been  reassured  by  Father 
James's  kindly  way.  The  colour  had  come  back 
to  her  cheeks  and  she  smiled,  showing  little  even 
teeth.  Her  smile  had  the  ingratiation  of  a  child's. 

"  We'll  have  a  cup  of  tea  in  the  garden,"  he  said. 
To  him  women  and  children  were  the  flowers  of 
the  world.  He  said  to  himself  that  Jim  was  not 
to  be  blamed,  poor  boy.  There  was  character  in 
the  face  as  well  as  that  heavenly  innocence  and 
gentleness.  Now  she  lifted  her  little  white  chin. 

".You're  too  'good  to  me,  Father,"  she  said,  and 
came  to  the  point  with  a  directness  he  was  not 
prepared  for.  "  'Tis  about  Jim,  Father.  He  isn't 

46 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  SOLOMON 

to  be  blamed.  I  don't  know  how  you  knew.  I'd 
rather  die  than  tell  his  secret " 

"  He  told  me  himself." 

"We  didn't  know  what  was  happening  till  it 
was  too  late,"  she  went  on,  her  cheeks  firing.  "  He 
used  to  come  in  for  his  lunch.  He  was  sorry  for 
me  because  I'd  no  one  to  take  me  out ;  and  he  didn't 
like  the  town,  and  I  didn't,  being  always  used  to  the 
country.  So  he  used  to  talk  to  me  and  we  were 
friends,  and  then  he  took  me  out  and  it  went  on 
and  on,  and  we  didn't  know  where  we  were  till  we 
were  fond  of  each  other." 

"Did  you  know  my  nephew  was  an  engaged 
man?" 

Her  lids  fluttered  nervously  over  her  frightened 
eyes,  and  she  looked  down  in  her  lap,  twisting  her 
fingers  together  as  she  answered  him. 

"  He  told  me ;  he  never  kept  anything  from  me. 
I  used  to  say  to  myself  that  it  was  so  little  I  was 
having :  that  it  would  all  be  done  and  over  in  a  little 
while,  and  then  he'd  belong  to  her  for  ever.  It 
wasn't  so  much ;  just  a  few  walks  and  talks.  He 
need  never  have  said  a  word.  I  wouldn't  have 
asked  anything  from  him.  I  never  thought  he 
was  going  to  like  me  the  best.  That  was  what 
made  the  trouble." 

Father  James  drew  a  deep  breath. 

47 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

"  Supposing  he  didn't  like  you  the  best  ?  "  he 
said  quietly. 

She  gasped  and  stared  at  him  like  one  who  has 
had  a  shock. 

"  Supposing  he  found  he  had  made  a  mistake  ? — 
a  very  natural  mistake  for  a  young  man  to  make 
when  he  is  thrown  into  such  a  friendship — and  dis- 
covered that  after  all  his  heart  was  where  it  ought 
to  be,  with  the  girl  who  was  wearing  his  ring  ?  " 

Plainly  she  took  his  question  for  an  assertion. 
She  gazed  at  Father  James  for  a  few  seconds,  and 
something  like  a  film  came  over  the  blue  of  her 
eyes.  She  shivered  as  though  she  were  cold. 
Then  she  stood  up  and  raised  her  little  hand  with 
a  forlorn  dignity.  The  dispossessed  Bex  fell  with 
a  little  thud  on  to  the  rug. 

"  If  that  be  so,"  she  said,  "I  shall  never  trouble 
him." 

"Wait,"  Father  James  said,  putting  his  hand  on 
her  arm.  "You  haven't  had  your  tea.  Besides, 
I  haven't  finished.  Supposing  he  is  really  fonder 
of  the  other  girl  than  he  is  of  you,  but  that  he  feels 
he  has  done  you  the  greater  wrong.  Supposing  he 
feels  that  she  can  do  without  him  better  than  you 
can,  and  is  prepared  to  give  up  his  own  happiness 
to  make  you  happy  ?  " 

"  That  would  be  very  kind  of  him,"  the  girl  said 

48 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  SOLOMON 

gently,  "but,  of  course,  I  couldn't  take  it  from 
him.  Will  you  please  tell  him  from  me,  Father, 
that  I  shall  do  very  well,  and  that  I'm  mindful  of 
all  the  kindness  he  showed  to  me ;  but  that  the  best 
of  friends  must  part ;  and  I  shall  be  happy  think- 
ing of  him  as  happy." 

A  small  sob  broke  the  heroic  speech. 

"  But  you  wouldn't  be  happy,  child  ?  " 

"  I  would  not,  Father,"  she  said ;  and  he  felt  as 
though  the  secrets  of  a  soul  were  laid  bare  to  him 
in  the  Confessional ;  "  but  he  is  never  to  know  it. 
I  shall  do  very  well.  I  have  my  mother  to  think 
of " 

She  held  out  her  hand. 

"And  you  refuse  him?"  said  Father  James. 
"  Eemember  that  he  will  marry  you  if  you  say  the 
word." 

"I  refuse  him,"  she  said,  and  made  a  step  or 
two  forward ;  and  her  eyes  were  as  though  she 
stepped  into  illimitable  space. 

"  Oh,  depths  of  love  in  a  woman's  heart !  "  said 
Father  James  softly  to  himself.  Then  he  put  the 
girl  back  gently  into  her  chair.  Eex  saw  his 
opportunity  and  jumped  into  her  lap  again.  It 
was  a  soft  lap  made  to  hold  children,  and  perhaps 
a  man's  hidden  face  when  he  came  for  confession 
and  comfort. 

4  49 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

"There,  there,  child,"  he  went  on  soothingly. 
"  You  haven't  had  your  tea  yet,  and  it  is  a  long, 
dusty  walk  back.  Better  wait  a  while  till  the 
coolness  comes  and  the  dews.  Maybe  I'll  be 
borrowing  a  pony  and  trap  to  take  you  part  of  the 
way.  What,  you  want  to  be  by  yourself — to  break 
your  heart  alone !  Child,  what  did  you  think  of 
us — of  me  and  Jim  ?  I  thank  God  for  the  revelation 
of  a  pure,  unselfish  love.  Trust  me  and  trust 
him.  He  is  a  good  boy,  but  you  will  need  to  watch 
over  him.  Ah,  there  is  the  tea-bell !  " 


Three  or  four  days  after  Nora  Fay  had  eaten 
and  drunken  griddle-cake  and  tea  and  other  good 
things  in  the  arbour  in  Father  James's  garden, 
with  the  smell  of  lilies  all  about  her,  feeling  as 
though  she  fed  on  heavenly  meat  and  drink  in 
Paradise,  Jim  Lester,  fretting  his  life  out  in  the 
Glen  to  the  trouble  and  bewilderment  of  Father 
Denis,  received  a  small  postal  packet. 

Within  it  lay  the  ring  he  had  given  to  Eose 
Maguire,  with  a  formal  and  very  cold  quittance 
from  that  young  lady.  Fortunately  she  had  dis- 
covered her  mistake  before  it  was  too  late;  she 
could  never  have  been  happy  with  Mr.  Lester. 
She  therefore  set  him  free  and  claimed  her  own 

60 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  SOLOMON 

freedom.  Would  Mr.  Lester  send  her  letters  and 
she  would  return  his  and  his  gifr^. 

Jim  Lester  whistled  like  a  blackbird  as  he 
packed  his  bag.  There  was  just  time  for  that 
and  to  write  a  note  to  Eose  accepting  his  freedom 
before  catching  the  mail  from  the  North.  He 
asked  Kose  to  keep  the  gifts  in  memory  of  one 
who  was  unworthy  of  her.  He  was  inclined  to  be 
reproachful  of  himself  at  that  moment  for  his 
recent  thoughts  about  Kose.  How  magnanimous 
she  had  been,  standing  out  of  the  way  and  leaving 
the  path  to  heaven  free  for  him  and  Nora. 

He  had  no  idea  at  all,  nor  ever  had,  of  the  deple- 
tion of  that  little  nest-egg  which  Father  James  had 
put  by  for  him  by  a  few  hundred  pounds.  Father 
James  had  shown  more  diplomacy  than  any  one 
would  have  credited  him  with  in  that  second 
interview  with  Eose,  in  which  he  had  persuaded 
her  that  the  results  in  hard  cash  of  a  law-suit  were 
problematical,  while  the  depreciation  in  the  mar- 
riage-market of  a  young  lady  who  had  set  a  money 
value  on  a  broken  heart  was  considerable.  Jim 
asked  no  questions.  He  was  too  delighted  with 
the  fortunate  issue  of  his  troubles  to  ask  how  it 
had  come  about.  If  he  was  inclined  to  give  Eose 
too  much  credit  for  generosity  and  high-mindedness 
that  did  no  harm  in  Father  James's  opinion.  He 

51 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

rejoiced  with  his  nephew  when  Kose  became  a 
bride  within  the  year ;  and  was  inclined  to  think 
that  the  shrinkage  of  the  nest-egg  was  well  atoned 
for  by  the  excellent  results. 

"  It  was  a  Judgment  of  Solomon,"  he  used  to 
say  to  himself  when  he  was  once  more  left  to  the 
companionship  of  Rex  and  Prince.  "I  had  to 
give  him  to  the  woman  who  loved  him  best  and 
had  the  best  right  to  him,  so  I  had,  and  sure  the 
Lord  guided  me.  The  one  who  was  ready  to  give 
him  up  was  the  right  one  after  all." 


52 


ST.  MAEY  OF  THE  ISLES. 

AT  half-past  seven  o'clock  on  that  mid-August 
Sunday,  a  few  minutes  after  Mr.  Agar  had  begun 
his  sermon,  his  old  clerk,  Saunders,  scurried  up  to 
the  pulpit  and  made  a  communication  to  him. 

The  rector  immediately  closed  his  book. 

"My  brethren,"  he  said,  "the  river  is  rising 
fast.  There  will  be  no  sermon  this  evening." 

About  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  the  congrega- 
tion had  dispersed,  the  rector  and  the  clerk  follow- 
ing them  hurriedly, — the  river  Holme  rose  with 
extraordinary  rapidity  once  it  had  made  up  its 
mind — a  couple  of  cyclists  stopped  at  the  field- 
gate  from  which  an  asphalted  pathway  sloped 
down  to  the  little  church. 

They  were  mere  casual  acquaintances  of  the 
road.  Amy  Qreville  had  punctured  a  tyre,  and 
was  mending  it  with  an  insufficient  amount  of 
solution  when  John  Tregaskis  overtook  her,  and 
with  an  honest  blush  that  did  his  good  looks  no 
discredit  asked  permission  to  help  her. 

53 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

A  couple  of  hours  back  they  had  had  tea  at  the 
same  inn,  and  he  had  wondered  at  her  impatience 
when  there  had  been  a  little  delay,  since  her  face 
seemed  framed  for  serenity.  She  had  looked  tired 
even  then.  Her  skirt  was  splashed  with  the  mud 
of  the  heavy  road  and  her  bicycle  when  he  caught 
a  glimpse  of  it  was  muddy  all  over  its  brightness. 

She  had  eaten  and  drunk  hurriedly  when  the 
meal  was  brought  and  had  ridden  away.  He  had 
enjoyed  his  meal  at  leisure;  and  riding  on  at 
leisure  had  come  on  his  recent  companion  of  the 
tea-table  working  away  at  her  tyres  with  the  same 
air  of  feverish  impatience.  While  he  helped  her 
she  stood  by  with  compressed  lips  as  though  she 
were  in  an  anguish  to  be  gone. 

The  whole  country  was  wet  as  a  sponge.  The 
sodden  grey  sky  was  hung  with  ominous-looking 
blobs  of  ragged  cloud.  As  they  came  up  to  the 
gate  that  led  to  the  church  it  began  to  rain  heavily. 

"  Better  shelter !  "  he  said  to  her.  He  had  the 
oddest  distaste  for  leaving  her  in  this  forlorn  place, 
with  not  a  habitation  in  sight,  and  night  closing  in 
about  her.  "  Better  shelter  !  There  is  a  light  in 
the  church ;  perhaps  there  is  a  service  going  on." 

"  There  is  great  need  for  my  hurrying,"  she  said, 
turning  her  beautiful,  limpid,  grey  eyes  on  him. 
"  My  darling  little  sister  is  ill.  I  am  on  my  way 

54 


ST.  MAKY  OF  THE  ISLES 

to  her.  I  only  heard  this  morning,  and  as  trains 
were  impossible  on  Sunday  I  was  obliged  to  ride. 
I  have  been  at  it  all  day.  Judging  by  my  map  I 
can't  be  more  than  ten  miles  from  the  place." 

"If  you  get  drenched  it  will  impede  you,"  he 
said. 

The  sky  seemed  to  take  a  visible  darkness  before 
their  eyes.  There  was  a  flash  of  lightning,  and 
the  flood-gates  of  Heaven  were  opened. 

"Come,"  he  said,  holding  the  gate  open.  She 
went  through  obediently,  pushing  her  bicycle 
before  her. 

The  path  led  them  down  into  a  dip  of  ground. 
They  crossed  the  wooden  hand-bridge  over  the 
swollen  river,  from  which  the  path  ascended  now, 
till  they  reached  the  little  Church  of  St.  Mary  of 
the  Isles,  high  and  dry  amid  the  pale  swamped 
fields.  If  they  had  known  its  name  it  might  have 
suggested  something  to  them,  but  they  did  not. 

The  lightning  came  again  and  again,  terrific 
flashes  of  forked  lightning,  with  deafening  peals  of 
thunder.  The  evening  had  suddenly  turned  to 
night,  and  the  distant  hills  stood  out  black  against 
a  firmament  of  running  fires.  Amy  was  terrified 
of  lightning.  The  little  church  was  at  the  moment 
indeed  an  ark  of  refuge. 

The  light  shone  from  the  vestry  window.    Old 

55 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

Saunders,  the  clerk,  in  his  hurry — he  had  to  cross 
the  Holme  twice  on  his  way  back  to  the  village — 
had  forgotten  the  light  in  the  vestry  as  he  had  for- 
gotten to  lock  the  door. 

John  Tregaskis  pushed  open  the  door  and  they 
went  in.  A  glance  showed  him  that  the  little 
church  beyond  was  dark  and  silent,  only  lit  now 
and  again  by  the  flashing  of  the  lightning. 

"  No  one  would  refuse  us  hospitality  on  such  a 
night,"  he  said  gently.  "Won't  you  sit  down? 
Ah,  the  stove  is  alight.  That  is  pleasant.  If  you 
will  sit  here  you  can  dry  your  skirts." 

She  moved  and  came  nearer  the  fire,  taking  the 
chair  he  set  for  her. 

"You  think  it  will  soon  be  over?"  she  asked 
anxiously. 

"  I  hope  so.  I  am  going  to  ask  you  when  it  is 
over  to  let  me  accompany  you  to  your  destination. 
You  ought  not  to  ride  alone  after  nightfall  in  this 
lonely  country,  and  the  roads  will  be  worse  than 
ever  after  this  deluge." 

She  looked  up  at  him  and  a  little  colour  came 
into  the  clear  cheek  under  the  big  hat-brim. 

"  I  ought  not  to "  she  began. 

"Accept  the  escort  of  a  stranger,"  he  finished 
for  her.  "  You  can  trust  me,  madam.  I  shall  not 
ask  to  be  l^ss  a  stranger  after  I  have  seen  you 

56 


ST.  MAEY  OF  THE  ISLES 

safely.  I  once  had  a  sister  who  died.  She  had 
eyes  like  yours." 

She  looked  up  at  him  and  her  colour  was  steady. 

"  Thank  you ;  I  will  trust  you,"  she  said. 

He  sat  watching  her  without  speaking  for  a  long 
time.  The  storm  showed  no  sign  of  abating. 
Now  and  again  he  saw  her  clench  her  hands  in 
agitation.  Her  profile  showed  clear  against  the 
light,  a  beautiful  profile,  a  delicate  little  nose,  a 
firm  chin,  a  mouth  at  once  strong  and  tender.  He 
had  noticed  at  the  inn  the  waves  and  ripples  of 
her  hair  behind  her  ears. 

"  Will  it  ever  be  over  ?  "  she  said  to  him  at  last. 

"It  will  soon  be  over,"  he  answered  comfort- 
ingly :  and  then  he  stood  up.  "Do  you  hear  the 
little  river  roaring  ?  "  he  asked,  and  his  face  wore 
a  startled  look. 

He  went  to  the  door,  unlatched  it  and  looked 
out.  The  lightning  was  dying  away  in  distance 
and  a  wild  moon  was  showing  herself  through  the 
ragged  clouds  and  the  heavy  rain  that  was  still 
falling.  As  he  looked  he  whistled  sharply  between 
his  teeth,  a  whistle  of  consternation. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked,  coming  to  his  side. 

"Look!" 

He  indicated  the  fields  without.  Since  they  had 
come  in  the  waters  had  risen  with  tremendous 

57 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

rapidity.  They  were  all  about  them.  The  little 
river  beyond  the  graves  was  running  like  a  mill- 
race.  Now  that  the  thunder  slackened  it  was  like 
thunder  in  their  ears.  The  bridge  they  had 
crossed  by  stood  islanded  in  the  middle  of  floods. 
And  it  was  still  rising. 

"  Oh !  "  she  uttered  a  little  cry.  "  What  are  we 
to  do?  Can't  we  cross?  It  can't  be  so  deep 
between  us  and  the  bridge  already !  " 

"  There  is  a  tremendous  current,"  he  said,  look- 
ing down  at  the  swirl  of  the  waters.  "I'm  afraid 
it  would  be  madness  to  attempt  it." 

"  Let  us  try  the  other  door,"  she  said. 

He  took  the  hanging  lamp  from  the  wall,  and 
they  crossed  the  church  to  its  doors.  Before  he 
could  take  down  the  bolts  he  heard  the  shouting 
of  the  waters  outside. 

"  I'm  afraid  we  are  on  an  island,"  he  said.  "  All 
around  us  is  the  river  valley,  and  this  little  hill  is 
in  the  loop  of  the  river.  Ah,  I  feared  as  much !  " 

The  bolt  had  fallen  with  a  heavy  clang,  and 
when  he  opened  the  door  the  river  was  within  a 
foot  of  them. 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  he  said,  "but  I'm  afraid  we 
shall  have  to  stay  till  help  comes  or  till  it  abates. 
I  know  this  kind  of  river.  It  rises  with  extra- 
ordinary rapidity.  All  the  streams  are  tumbling 

58 


ST.  MAEY  OF  THE  ISLES 

into  it  from  the  hills,  and  doubtless  it  takes  the 
overflow  from  some  lake  or  lakes  up  there.  The 
only  consolation  is  that  it  falls  as  quickly  as  it 
rises.  What  a  good  thing  we  have  light  and  fire  !  " 

They  went  back  to  the  vestry  and  he  replenished 
the  fire.  Fortunately  he  found  plenty  of  fuel. 
When  he  had  made  it  cheerful  he  looked  around  at 
his  companion. 

"  Come  and  sit  nearer,"  he  said.  "  Won't  you 
take  off  your  hat  and  hang  it  on  the  parson's  hat 
peg.  We  must  make  the  best  of  the  fix  we  find 
ourselves  in.  After  all  it  might  be  worse.  Ah  !  " 

She  was  sitting  with  her  face  in  the  shadow  of 
her  hand  and  he  had  not  suspected  tears,  but  he 
had  seen  a  shining  globule  drop  suddenly  as  though 
from  long  lashes. 

"Ah!"  he  said  again,  with  the  most  curious 
tenderness.  "  Is  it  so  bad  as  that  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  afraid,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "It 
is  ...  that  I  am  thinking  of  Kitty.  It  is  ... 
suffering  not  to  be  with  her,  not  to  know  how 
things  are  going." 

He  caught  his  own  breath  as  sharply  as  she  had 
caught  hers. 

"  That  is  bad,"  he  said,  "  but  then  she  is  in  the 
hands  of  the  good  God." 

"You  believe  that?"  she  asked  with  eagerness. 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "don't  you?" 

"  There  was  a  time  when  I  might  have  said  no," 
she  said,  "but  that  time  is  gone.  I  have  been 
through  deep  waters  and  I  have  come  out  on  the 
other  side." 

"That  is  the  great  thing,"  he  said  with  simple 
heartiness,  "  to  have  come  out  on  the  other  side." 

Only  her  need  would  have  wrung  from  him  that 
word  of  comfort.  He  found  it  as  difficult  to  talk 
of  the  religion  that  lay  close  to  his  heart  as  any 
other  ordinary-minded  young  man.  Now  he  turned 
the  conversation  to  every-day  topics,  setting  him- 
self with  all  of  art  his  kind  heart  could  teach  him 
to  distract  her  from  her  griefs  and  anxieties.  She 
understood,  and  looked  at  him  with  a  bewildering 
gratitude.  She  did  not  know  herself  how  it  shone 
in  her  beautiful  eyes  or  she  might  have  kept  them 
veiled. 

He  talked  in  a  slow,  deliberate,  gentle  way, 
feeling  all  the  time  the  blood  in  his  veins  running 
as  strongly  as  the  river  outside.  Not  for  worlds 
would  he  have  let  her  see  that  the  chance  that  had 
thrown  them  together  was  a  delightful  one  for  him. 
In  fact  he  said  to  himself  sternly  that  he  was  a 
brute  and  various  other  things  to  be  glad  of  the 
chance  that  meant  suffering  to  her,  as  well  as  a 
good  deal  of  awkwardness  for  both. 

60 


ST.  MAKY  OF  THE  ISLES 

His  talk  was  as  soothing  to  Amy  Greville  as  the 
flowing  of  a  quiet  stream.  How  kind  he  was,  how 
considerate !  She  was  not  used  to  being  treated 
with  this  air  of  tender  deference.  Perhaps  as  a 
teacher  in  a  Girls'  High  School  she  put  on  an 
armour  of  office  to  conceal  her  weakness  ;  anyhow 
she  had  always  been  treated  as  a  strong-minded 
person.  They  did  not  know  the  ache  there  always 
was  in  her  breast  for  little  Kitty,  the  one  creature 
who  loved  her  and  clung  to  her  and  protected 
her  and  understood  her.  Oh !  Kitty,  Kitty  !  The 
name  was  like  a  sword  in  her  heart.  She  turned 
resolutely  from  thinking  of  Kitty.  That  was  a 
subject  that  would  not  bear  thinking  on. 

What  was  he  talking  of  ?  Of  his  boyhood  and 
the  mother  he  adored.  Why  she  too  had  had  a 
mother  she  adored ;  but  she  was  gone  and  there 
was  an  uncongenial  woman  in  her  place,  whom 
even  motherhood  had  not  softened,  who  had  not 
wanted  Amy  and  did  not  want  Kitty.  It  was 
Amy's  dream  of  Heaven  to  have  a  little  spot  of 
earth  somewhere  where  she  could  make  a  home 
for  Kitty.  It  did  not  seem  very  realisable,  con- 
sidering the  amount  of  Amy's  salary.  And  perhaps, 
after  all,  Kitty  would  never  want  it.  A  lump  came 
in  her  throat. 

"  Hello  ! "  said  her  companion,  looking  down  on 
61 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

the  floor  at  his  feet.  Something  like  a  black  snake 
moved  in  the  dimness.  "  The  water  is  coming 
under  the  door,"  he  said. 

"Fortunately,"  she  answered,  "there  is  always 
the  organ-loft." 

He  looked  at  her  reflectively. 

"  You  are  thinking  the  church  would  not  stand 
it  ?  "  she  said,  in  a  half  whisper. 

"  It  is  very  old.  But  it  must  have  been  in  many 
floods  like  this." 

"It  has  not  known  many  summers  like  this." 

"  The  old  builders  built  strongly." 

"  Let  us  drink  to  the  old  builders !  "  she  said, 
with  a  little  touch  of  reckless  gaiety,  filling  the 
parson's  glass  with  water  from  the  water-bottle 
and  lifting  it  to  her  lips. 

"  Yes,  let  us  drink,"  he  said.  "  I  have  some 
sherry  in  my  flask  and  some  sandwiches." 

"  And  I,"  she  said,  "  have  some  chocolate.  We 
shall  not  be  starved  out." 

"  When  you  feel  hungry  we  shall  have  a  meal," 
he  said. 

"I  don't  feel  like  feeling  hungry,"  she  replied. 

She  looked  at  him  wistfully.  Then  she  said 
with  her  face  averted : — 

"  I  should  like,  if  you  do  not  mind,  to  say  the 
prayer  for  those  in  sickness  ". 

62 


ST.  MARY  OF  THE  ISLES 

"  I  do  not  mind,  not  at  all,"  he  said  cheerfully. 
"  Supposing  we  go  into  the  church.  It  is  dryer 
than  this." 

They  knelt  side  by  side  in  one  of  the  dark  pews, 
and  said  aloud  the  prayer  for  the  sick.  Then  he 
whispered  to  her.  "  Let  us  pray  for  those  in 
peril  on  the  sea:  that  would  be  ourselves,  you 
know." 

They  said  the  prayer,  and  they  returned  to  the 
vestry,  she  feeling  oddly  comforted. 

"  I  begin  to  feel  .  .  .  what  you  said  .  .  .  about 
Kitty  being  in  the  hands  of  the  good  God,"  she 
said  in  a  little  whisper. 

"  The  river  has  stopped  rising,"  he  said,  looking 
down  at  the  water  on  the  floor.  "  See,  it  has  gone 
no  further.  Presently  it  will  begin  to  fall." 

She  bent  down  and  poked  the  fire. 

"Let  us  talk  !  "  she  said,  "  if  we  talk  the  time 
will  go  more  quickly." 

"  Certainly,"  he  assented.  "  What  shall  we  talk 
about?" 

"  What  would  you  like  to  talk  about  ?  " 

The  flames  lit  up  soft  fires  in  the  depths  of  her 
eyes,  and  sparkled  in  the  little  jewel  at  her  white 
throat. 

"Will  you  tell  me  about  yourself?"  he  said 
diffidently. 

63 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

"I  have  so  little  to  tell,"  she  answered  with  a 
start. 

"I  said  an  hour  ago,"  he  went  on  with  quiet 
steadiness,  "  that  after  to-night  if  you  willed  it  we 
might  return  to  being  strangers.  But  I  hope  you 
will  not  will  it.  People  thrown  together  as  we 
have  been  can  hardly  ever  be  strangers  again." 

"  Friends  then  ?  "  she  said,  with  a  quiet  joyous- 
ness  in  her  voice. 

"Yes,  friends,"  he  answered.  "Tell  me  about 
yourself.  Then  I  shall  tell  you  about  myself. 
Friends  ought  to  know  about  their  friends." 

He  settled  himself  to  listen,  leaning  back,  with 
his  hands  clasped  behind  his  comely  young  head. 
As  she  had  said  there  was  so  little  to  tell,  just  the 
brief  bright  memory  of  a  happy  childhood,  then  the 
eclipse  of  the  sun  in  the  sky  with  the  mother's 
death;  the  coming  of  the  stepmother,  the  hard 
unloving,  unsympathetic  rule ;  Amy's  going  to 
school,  her  record  of  hard  work,  with  always  that 
dream  of  making  a  home  for  Kitty  to  spur  her  on ; 
her  life  at  the  High  School ;  then  Kitty's  illness. 
The  history  stopped  short  there :  there  was  really 
very  little  to  tell. 

She  told  it  all  with  simple  frankness.  Plainly 
there  was  nothing  in  the  background,  no  lover; 
he  was  relieved  there  was  no  lover :  plainly  that 

64 


ST.  MAEY  OF  THE  ISLES 

dream  of  the  home  for  Kitty  filled  the  place  in  her 
life  which  might  have  been  occupie-!  by  a  lover. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said  simply  vvhen  she  had 
finished.  "  And  now  here  goes  for  myself.'* 

His  story  was  hardly  more  eventful  than  hers. 
He  was  an  artist  by  profession,  his  work  chiefly 
lying  in  the  direction  of  posters  and  black  and 
white  work  for  the  illustrated  papers.  She  knew 
his  name  quite  well  when  he  had  told  it  to  her. 
He  painted  pictures,  too,  which  hitherto  had  brought 
him  a  little  reputation  among  those  who  knew, 
but  less  money.  He  lived  in  a  house  among  fields 
not  far  from  London,  and  was  looked  after  by  an 
old  housekeeper.  He  had  no  relatives  at  all  ex- 
cept a  couple  of  maiden  aunts  who  lived  at  Tun- 
bridge  Wells.  He  had  no  end  of  male  friends, 
and  was  very  busy,  too  busy  to  feel  lonely,  he 
added. 

It  seemed  easy  to  talk  in  this  quiet  dropping 
desultory  fashion.  The  night  turned  round  slowly, 
and  the  candle  flickered  and  went  out.  Fortu- 
nately there  was  plenty  of  fuel,  and  he  was  inde- 
fatigable in  building  the  fire. 

Once  he  asked  her  if  he  should  leave  her.     He 

could  make  himself  very  comfortable  in  a  pew  in 

the  church  if  she  desired  to  sleep.     But  her  eyes 

asked  him  to  stay.     The  graves  crowding  to  the 

5  60 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

church-doors,  and  more  tangible  fears,  were  but 
awaiting  his  absence  to  terrify  her. 

"  I  couldn't  sleep  indeed,"  she  said. 

"  Very  well  then,"  he  answered.  "  I  was  afraid 
you'd  get  tired  of  me.  Supposing  we  have  a  sand- 
wich and  some  of  the  sherry  now !  How  lucky 
that  I  was  cautious  enough  to  take  them !  " 

They  became  quite  cheerful  over  the  little  meal, 
and  afterwards  she  closed  her  eyes  unawares. 
Opening  them  presently  she  found  her  companion 
watching  her  in  the  cold  light  of  dawn. 

"I  fell  asleep,"  she  said  with  contrition. 

11  You've  had  three  hours  of  it,"  he  said  brightly ; 
"  and  the  river  is  falling." 

"  And  you  have  not  slept  at  all." 

"  I  dared  not ;  I  am  such  a  fellow  to  sleep  once 
I  go  off.  I  had  to  watch  the  fire." 

1  'How  good  you  have  been  to  me,"  she  said 
gratefully. 

He  turned  from  her  gaze,  went  to  the  door  and 
threw  it  open.  The  wind  blew  in  with  the  coolness 
of  the  waters  in  it,  and  she  came  and  stood  by  his 
side. 

"In  about  two  hours,"  he  said,  "it  will  have 
sunk  sufficiently  to  allow  us  to  escape." 

There  was  something  like  regret  in  his  voice. 

f<  It  is  now  .  ,  .  I  have  let  my  watch  run  down," 


ST.  MABY  OF  THE  ISLES 

"Six  o'clock." 

"  We  shall  be  at  Hersley  by  ...  half -past  nine 
or  ten.  But  perhaps  you  are  not  going  to  Hersley  ?  " 

"  That  is  just  as  you  wish." 

The  blood  rushed  across  her  face  in  a  great 
flood. 

"  My  stepmother  .  .  .  would  not  understand.  .  .  . 
She  would  think  it  was  my  indiscretion.  It  was 
always  like  that." 

"  She  need  not  know.  No  one  need  know. 
We  can  keep  it  to  ourselves." 

She  breathed  a  great  sigh  of  relief. 

"You  think  so?  She  can  say  such  biting 
things." 

"  No  one  need  know  but  ourselves.  Let  me  go 
with  you  as  far  as  Hersley.  I  want  to  have  news 
of  Kitty.  What  about  your  bicycle  ?  " 

"  I  will  take  it  to  the  inn,  and  leave  it  there.  I 
have  had  to  stay  at  the  inn  before.  The  house  is 
so  full  always.  There  is  no  room  for  me." 

"  Then  I  shall  come  on  after  you  and  wait  for 
news.  I  can  hang  about  till  you  find  time  to  bring 
it  to  me." 

"  It  will  not  be  very  long  "  she  said  sadly.  "  I 
have  to  return  this  afternoon." 

He  fell  back  when  they  were  about  a  mile  from 
Hersley  and  let  her  ride  on  to  the  inn,  There  was 

£7 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

but  one.  If  there  had  been  two,  he  would  have 
gone  to  the  other  to  make  her  position  easier.  He 
delayed  a  little  while  and  then  followed  her  to  the 
Bed  Lion. 

As  he  went  in  through  the  courtyard  with  its 
couple  of  orange-trees  in  tubs,  she  beckoned  to 
him  from  a  window.  Her  face  was  transfigured. 
What  could  have  happened  to  her  to  make  it  so 
joyful  ? 

"  Come  in  here,"  she  said.  "  I  have  good  news, 
and  want  to  tell  it  to  you/' 

He  made  his  way  into  this  one  of  the  range  of 
little  old-fashioned  sitting-rooms  that  looked  into 
the  green  court,  and  took  her  hands. 

"  I  met  Dr.  Pendered,"  she  said,  letting  him 
keep  them,  "outside  the  inn  door.  He  had  been 
there  all  the  night  with  Kitty.  At  last  she  sleeps. 
The  worst  of  the  danger  is  over.  She  only  wants 
careful  nursing  now.  Oh,  Kitty ! "  She  turned 
away  her  face  :  then  with  a  shaking  voice  went  on. 
"I  thought  that  after  all,  my  stepmother  being 
what  she  is,  I  had  better  present  myself  with  the 
wear  and  tear  of  the  road  and  the  night  washed 
away  from  me.  I  have  ordered  breakfast." 

"  Am  I  to  order  breakfast,  too?  "  he  asked  wist- 
fully. "  In  another  of  these  little  rooms  ?  " 

*'  Why,"  she  said, "  I  am  happy  enough  to  throyy 


ST.  MAEY  OF  THE  ISLES 

prudence  to  the  winds.  Why  should  I  not  have 
recognised  a  friend?  In  fact  ...  I  had  ordered 
your  breakfast.  I  said  a  friend  was  following  me." 

' 'Amy,"  said  he,  suddenly  calling  her  by  her 
Christian  name  :  "  supposing,  supposing,  you  were 
to  say  that  ...  I  was  .  .  .  your  accepted  lover. 
Wouldn't  that  make  things  right  ?  " 

She  turned  away  her  head  shyly. 

"  It  would  be  a  very  wild  thing  to  do.  There 
would  be  more  to  explain  afterwards." 

"  Supposing  it  were  true  ?  "  he  whispered.  "  I 
don't  dare  think  that  you  feel  anything  about  me, 
except  perhaps  a  fellow-feeling  for  one  caught  by 
the  floods  like  yourself.  But  I  know  what  I  feel. 
I  love  you,  Amy,  and  I  am  going  to  go  on  telling 
you  so  till  you  say  you  love  me.  We  could  take  in 
Kitty,  darling.  There  is  a  room  overlooking  the 
garden " 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  it  isn't  a  piece  of  wild  generous 
folly  because  the  flood  shut  us  in  together?  " 

He  smiled  his  scorn  at  the  idea,  looking  more 
than  ever  a  delightful,  gracious  boy. 

"I  was  never  as  wise  in  my  life  before.  I'm 
not  a  person  to  excite  love  at  first  sight,  so  I  don't 
ask  you  to  love  me  yet,  Amy,  only  to  trust  me,  and 
by-and-by, — I  shall  try  so  hard  to  earn  it  that  the 
love  will  come." 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

"I  love  you  now,"  she  said,  with  shining  eyes. 
"You  don't  know  how  beautifully  you  behaved 
when  we  were  imprisoned.  Any  woman  must 
have  loved  you." 

"  Then  it  is  not  for  Kitty's  sake,"  he  said  radi- 
antly. 

"  For  my  own,"  she  replied. 

Old  Saunders  rubbed  his  eyes  when  he  found  on 
the  table  in  the  vestry  the  morning  following  the 
flood  a  five-pound  Bank  of  England  note,  in  an 
envelope  inscribed,  "  In  thanksgiving  for  a  refuge  ". 
From  that  and  other  signs  he  gathered  that  some- 
one had  taken  refuge  there  from  the  floods.  About 
two  months  later,  a  second  offering  was  received 
with  the  inscription :  "St.  Mary  of  the  Isles, 
a  thank-offering  for  twelve  hours  and  what  they 
brought ".  It  was  impossible  to  associate  this  with 
anything,  much  less  with  a  marriage  which  took 
place  in  Hersley,  about  ten  miles  away,  that  same 
morning.  So  the  notes  and  their  donor  passed 
into  the  region  of  unsolved  mysteries. 


70 


THE  FOX. 

THE  Ballinacurra  property  was  a  very  pretty 
one.  It  comprehended  some  miles  of  wood  and 
water,  a  grouse  mountain,  a  trout  stream.  There 
was  a  big  house,  with  a  courtyard  at  the  back,  in 
a  state  of  disrepair.  It  had  acres  of  glass,  long 
ranges  of  outbuildings.  Fortunately  Sir  Adrian 
Ingestre's  purse  was  equal  to  making  it  all  as  good 
as  new  again.  The  place  was  full  of  workmen  : 
the  noise  of  hammering  resounded  all  day  long. 
As  soon  as  a  few  rooms  were  ready  for  occupation 
Sir  Adrian  had  moved  in.  He  was  delighted  with 
his  Irish  property,  none  the  less  because  he  had 
bought  it  for  a  song.  His  English  friends  were 
glad  to  keep  him  company  where  there  was  such 
sport  to  be  had.  The  county  was  ready  to  receive 
him.  Only  two  people  held  coldly  aloof.  They 
were  his  nearest  neighbours,  the  Prince  of  Erris 
and  his  grand-daughter,  Kathaleen  O'Driscoll. 

As  it  happened  the  prince's  property  made    a 
wedge  into  Ballinacurra  land.     It  was   a  small 

71 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

wedge,  but  it  spoilt  any  chance  of  enclosing  Bal- 
linacurra  within  a  ring  fence.  It  was  a  wild  over- 
grown place,  a  wilderness  by  Ballinacurra,  which 
had  been  at  some  time  a  well-kept  park  and  would 
be  again,  now  it  was  an  Englishman's  property. 

Sir  Adrian  Ingestre  had  come  into  the  country 
with  a  kindly  heart  towards  all  its  inhabitants. 
He  had  no  idea  of  making  a  Naboth's  vineyard  of 
the  prince's  wild  piece  of  bog  and  mountain.  In 
fact  he  was  about  to  call  on  the  prince  to  ask  him 
to  make  one  of  his  party  of  guns,  when  another 
neighbour,  Lady  Derrymore,  warned  him  of  the  in- 
discretion he  had  nearly  committed. 

The  occasion  was  a  dance  following  a  dinner  at 
Derrybeg.  His  hostess  had  been  very  kind  to  him. 
In  fact  her  Irish  softness  of  speech  and  manner 
had  made  him  her  devoted  slave. 

"I  want  to  dance,"  he  said  to  her,  "with  the 
little  girl  in  the  green  frock  who  has  the  eyes  of  a 
mountain  pony." 

Lady  Derrymore  looked  the  way  he  indicated. 
There  was  a  shy  child  with  a  golden-brown  head, 
and  extraordinary  bright  eyes  under  a  tangle  of 
lashes.  She  was  looking  their  way  and  at  the 
moment  her  expression  was  one  of  the  utmost 
resentment. 

"I  daren't  do  it,"  she  said,  laughing.  "Why 
72 


THE  FOX 

that  is  O'Driscoll's  grand-daughter,  little  Kathaleen. 
Don't  you  know  that  they  hate  you  like  poison?  " 

"  I  didn't  know  anything  of  the  sort,"  he  said 
bluntly.  "  May  I  ask  why  ?  " 

"  Because  Ballinacurra  is  O'Driscoll  land.  Be- 
cause they  are  banished  to  the  waste  and  derelict 
bit  of  the  property.  Because  you're  restoring 
Ballinacurra.  Because  we've  all  received  you,  and 
with  constitutional  inertness  allowed  you  to  take 
a  leading  place  among  us.  Because — you  talk  of 
starting  a  pack  of  deer-hounds.  They  do  not  con- 
sider that  the  sale  of  Ballinacurra  included  the 
deer.  My  dear  Sir  Adrian,  the  deer  belong  to  none 
of  us.  Occasionally  they  swim  the  river  to  us,  and 
we  might  as  well  call  them  ours.  The  original 
deer-forest,  the  last  bit  of  it  that  remains,  cer- 
tainly belongs  to  the  prince." 

"  The  deer  were  mentioned  in  the  inventory  of 
my  property.  They  feed  in  my  park  all  day. 
After  all  my  project  of  the  hounds  was  a  dim  and 
distant  one.  For  the  present  I  am  quite  satisfied 
with  the  fox-hunting,  especially  since  you  have 
made  me  master.  They  might  have  postponed 
their  hatred  till  I  had  given  them  cause." 

"  You've  given  them  plenty,"  laughed  Lady 
Derrymore.  "  O'Driscoll  hasn't  put  his  leg  across 
a  horse  these  twenty  years,  yet  they  resent  our 

73 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

giving  you  the  mastership.  It's  no  use  telling  them 
that  we  couldn't  afford  to  keep  it  ourselves.  They'd 
think  we  ought  to  have  pawned  our  last  bit  of  plate 
to  keep  the  hounds  out  of  an  Englishman's  hands. 
They  say  O'Driscoll  won't  let  the  hounds  cross  his 
land  this  winter.  I  know  he's  trying  to  stir  up 
strife  against  you  all  over  the  country  ;  and  mind 
the  people  look  up  to  him  a  deal  as  the  last  Prince 
of  Erris." 

"I  never  heard  anything  so  unreasonable,"  said 
the  Englishman  aghast. 

"My  dear  man,  that's  the  charm  of  us,"  said 
his  hostess,  flirting  her  fan. 

"  I'll  call  on  him  and  have  it  out." 

"  You'll  find  the  door  shut  in  your  face." 

"  I  shall  be  no  worse  for  that." 

The  memory  of  the  eyes  under  the  golden  brown 
tangle  of  hair  followed  Sir  Adrian  long  after  their 
owner  had  coldly  refused  him  the  dance  which 
despite  Lady  Derrymore's  warnings  he  had  been 
determined  enough  to  ask  for. 

He  called  at  Castle  Erris  a  day  or  two  later  and 
found  the  avenue  leading  to  the  dilapidated  mansion 
in  such  a  state  of  disrepair,  so  littered  by  the 
boughs  and  even  whole  trees  of  old  storms  that  he 
was  obliged  to  leave  his  dog-cart  a  little  way  from 
the  entrance-gate  and  do  the  rest  on  foot. 

74 


THE  FOX 

The  door  was  opened  to  him  by  an  old  man  in 
a  shabby  suit  of  livery.  When  hf  had  heard  the 
visitor's  name  his  face  assumed  the  oddest  mixture 
of  comical  perplexity  and  a  dogged  determination. 

"Whisper,  now,  dear,"  he  said,  looking  furtively 
behind  him.  "  I  wouldn't  take  in  that  name  not  if 
you  gev  me  Darner's  fortune.  'Tis  one  of  the 
Master's  bad  days.  He's  sittin'  with  his  foot  laid 
up  in  cotton-wool  forenenst  him,  clanin'  his  ould 
breech-loader.  An'  if  I  was  to  mintion  your  name 
to  him  maybe  'tis  the  contints  of  it  he'd  be  givin' 
me  in  me  back.  The  divil  a  lie  in  it !  " 

Since  Sir  Adrian  Ingestre  could  not  storm  the 
Prince  of  Erris  in  his  own  stronghold  he  was 
obliged  to  retire,  not  knowing  whether  to  feel  more 
angry  or  amused. 

During  the  winter  that  followed  there  were 
several  unpleasant  incidents  in  connection  with 
the  hunting.  There  were  protests  against  the  hunt 
crossing  their  lands  from  farmers  who  had  never 
objected  before.  Once  or  twice  the  riders  were  met 
by  a  group  of  rough  peasants  carrying  pitchforks 
and  other  unpleasant  implements. 

"  They  learnt  the  way  of  it,"  said  Lady  Derry- 
more,  "  in  the  Land  League  times  :  but  they  haven't 
been  putting  it  into  practice  since  we  declared  peace 
all  round.  Upon  my  word,  Sir  Adrian,  it's  too  bad, 

75 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

seeing  all  the  employment  you've  been  giving  in 
the  country,  but  if  it  goes  on  we'll  have  to  ask 
Colonel  O'Conor  to  sacrifice  himself  for  the  rest  of 
us  and  take  the  hounds.  It's  all  the  old  prince. 
It's  surprising  what  influence  he  has." 

"It's  always  easy  to  influence  the  people  badly," 
said  Sir  Adrian  with  an  outburst  of  spleen,  which 
showed  that  he  had  been  hard  hit  by  the  failure  he 
had  been  as  master. 

It  was  no  later  than  the  Tuesday  after  that,  that 
the  hounds  having  lost  an  old  dog-fox  at  the  Lohort 
Spinney  gave  cry  again  as  they  were  being  led  home 
to  the  kennels.  The  members  of  the  hunt  had 
dispersed  slowly  and  sadly.  The  master,  the 
huntsman  and  the  whipper-in  with  a  few  idlers  were 
all  that  remained.  It  was  a  winter  afternoon,  cold 
and  bright,  with  the  yellow  leaves  yet  shivering  on 
the  trees,  since  there  hadn't  been  a  gale  to  bring 
them  down. 

The  hounds  were  let  slip  and  disappeared  into 
the  spinney.  The  huntsman  gave  the  tally-ho, 
although  there  were  none  but  themselves  to  hear 
it.  They  swept  through  the  spinney  and  out  into 
the  open  country  beyond.  Then  made  for  Bargy 
Woods. 

Down  the  side  of  a  ravine,  up  the  other  went  the 
hounds,  giving  tongue;  Sir  Adrian  riding  behind 

76 


THE  FOX 

them.  It  was  rough  riding,  for  the  woods  were 
full  of  the  stumps  of  trees  which  had  been  lately 
felled,  and  once  or  twice  Sir  Adrian's  mare  stumbled 
with  hirn,  but  regained  her  footing.  Once  he  was 
down.  By  the  time  he  was  up  again  and  in  the 
saddle  he  heard  the  furious  barking  of  the  hounds 
at  a  distance.  They  were  evidently  at  fault ;  the 
quarry  had  slipped  into  a  drain  or  otherwise  baffled 
them. 

Sir  Adrian  looked  round  for  the  huntsman :  he 
was  not  in  sight.  He  rode  on  where  the  yelping 
of  the  hounds  led  him.  Presently  he  came  out  in 
the  middle  of  a  little  glade.  The  dogs'  voices  were 
deafening  by  this  time.  They  were  leaping  like  mad 
below  a  great  chestnut-tree,  all  their  sharp,  excited 
faces  turned  upwards  to  the  tree,  their  tongues 
panting,  their  tails  going  like  mad. 

Sir  Adrian  rode  into  the  midst  of  them,  looked 
up  into  the  tree,  and  then  fell  to  flogging  the  hounds 
furiously  with  his  whip.  In  a  minute  or  two  the 
huntsman  and  whipper-in  appeared  on  the  scene 
looking  rather  crestfallen.  Sir  Adrian  roared  his 
orders.  The  huntsman  called  his  hounds  off.  In 
a  few  seconds  they  were  trotting  away  to  the 
kennels,  disappointed  of  their  sport,  but  evidently 
anticipating  their  coming  meal. 

Sir  Adrian  remained  below  the  tree  till  the  dirj 

77 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

passed  somewhat  out  of  hearing.  Then  he  looked 
up  into  the  soft  golden  masses  of  the  boughs. 

"Now,"  he  said  in  a  tone  of  concentrated 
emotion,  fury,  concern,  irritation,  all  struggling 
together.  "  You'd  better  let  that  thing  go ;  and 
then  be  obliging  enough  to  tell  me  what  you  did  it 
for.  I  don't  suppose  it  was  motive  enough  that 
you  were  spoiling  the  run." 

"  Indeed  I  never  thought  of  you,"  said  a  sweet 
cold  voice  out  of  the  tree.  "  And  as  for  letting  the 
little  beast  go,  why  I  just  can't.  It's  quite  a  young 
thing  and  it  has  broken  its  paw.  It  fell  right  at 
my  feet,  yelping  like  a  pet  dog.  Do  you  suppose 
I, was  going  to  leave  it  to  the  hounds  ?  " 

"  You  knew  your  danger,  I  suppose?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  knew,"  said  the  voice  airily.  "  It  was 
a  near  thing  too.  The  first  hound  almost  pulled  me 
back  out  of  the  tree.  I  believe  he  carried  a  bit  of 
the  braid  off  my  skirt  away  in  his  mouth." 

"  Good  heavens  !  If  the  pack  had  pulled  you 
down  with  the  scent  of  the  fox  about  you  they'd 
have  made  short  work  of  you." 

"  I  shouldn't  have  liked  that  sort  of  death," 
said  the  voice.  "  Of  course  I  knew  it  in  a  way. 
But  what  would  you  have  done  yourself  if  the  fox 
had  come  tumbling  at  your  feet  like  that?  " 

"  I  hope  I'd  have  had  more  sense  than  to  do 


THE  FOX 

what  you  did,"  Sir  Adrian  replied  grimly.  "  But 
now  are  you  coming  down  ?  Is  the  little  beast's 
paw  really  broken  ?  Didn't  it  scratch  and  bite  at 
you  when  you  picked  it  up  ?  " 

"  No  more  than  a  pet  dog.  I  have  a  theory  that 
it  is  some  one's  pet  fox ;  or  it  has  been  tamed  by 
the  suffering,  like  the  lion  in  the  story.  Here, 
catch  it !  I'm  coming." 

A  small  sunburnt  hand  and  wrist  were  thrust 
from  the  warm  drift  of  leaves.  From  the  fingers, 
held  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck,  dangled  helplessly  a 
little  fox. 

In  the  same  manner  Sir  Adrain  received  it,  and 
laid  it  down  on  the  moss.  The  thing  showed  no 
inclination  to  run  away.  Its  anxious  face  wore 
the  expression  of  a  dog  in  trouble.  Sir  Adrian 
mentally  inclined  to  the  theory  of  the  fox  being  a 
pet. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  "  asked  the  voice, 
at  his  side  now.  Miss  O'Driscoll  had  slung  herself 
down  with  surprising  ease  and  grace  from  the  tree. 

"Going  to  set  the  paw,"  he  answered.  "I've 
never  done  as  much  for  a  fox  before,  but  I  have 
more  than  once  for  a  dog.  And,  as  a  preliminary, 
I'm  going  to  muzzle  you,  old  fellow.  A  fox's  bite 
is  a  very  nasty  thing,  Miss  O'Driscoll,  as 
fortunately  have  not  been  obliged  to  realise." 

79 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

He  produced  his  handkerchief  and  with  surpris- 
ingly little  resistance  on  the  part  of  the  fox  bound 
up  his  jaws.  Then  he  looked  about  for  something 
of  which  to  make  his  splints,  found  what  he  wanted, 
and  performed  the  little  operation  skilfully  and 
tenderly. 

When  he  had  finished — "  Now,  what  are  we  go- 
ing to  do  with  him  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Ballinacurra  is 
nearer  than  Erris.  Supposing — I  think  I  could  get 
a  donkey-cart  close  by — I  take  him  there?  " 

The  girl  had  been  leaning  over  him  so  intent  on 
what  he  was  doing  that  her  breath  was  on  his 
cheek;  he  could  see  where  the  upward-sweeping 
eyelashes  caught  the  light  on  their  gold ;  the  down 
on  the  young  roses  of  her  cheeks  was  like  a  baby's. 

"  That  will  be  best,"  she  said.  "  When  he  gets 
well " 

"  It  must  be  for  you  to  decide.  Perhaps  you  had 
better  make  a  pet  of  him  to  keep  him  from  being 
hunted  again/' 

"  I  think  we  shall  give  him  his  choice,"  she  said 
softly. 

"  You  know,  I  think  it  was  splendid  of  you,"  he 
went  on.  "  Perfect  lunacy,  of  course,  but  splendid 
all  the  same  " 

She  reddened  at  his  praise. 

"  I  think  you  are  very  kind/'  she  said  simply, 


THE  FOX 

"  I  don't  know  any  one  else  who  would  have  been 
so  good  to  the  fox,  and  so  clever." 

"And  you  forgive  me?"  he  asked  extending  a 
frank  hand.  "  I  want  to  be  friends  with  O'Driscoll 
and  his  grand-daughter." 

She  put  her  hand  into  his. 

"  Grandpapa  was  angry  because  the  deer  were  to 
be  hunted,"  she  said. 

"I  shall  not  think  of  it  again,"  he  answered 
eagerly. 

She  flung  back  her  mane,  and  her  bright  eyes 
looked  at  him,  at  once  shy  and  fearless. 

"  There  are  other  things,"  she  said,  "things  of 
no  importance.  It  was  my  fault.  I  did  my  best 
to  make  my  grandfather  hate  you." 

"  But  you  don't  hate  me  ?  " 

"Not  now."  Their  hands  were  still  clasped 
above  the  little  fox,  which  lay,  licking  uneasily  at 
the  splinted  leg,  between  them. 

"  Not  now,"  she  repeated,  and  then  her  eyes  fell. 

Down  along  the  woodland  road  came  a  donkey- 
cart  returning  from  the  market  whither  it  had 
carried  a  family  of  small  pigs.  It  was  easy  to 
arrange  for  the  carriage  of  the  little  fox  to  Bal- 
linacurra.  When  they  had  seen  it  start,  Miss 
O'Driscoll  held  out  her  hand. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  said. 

6  81 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

"We  go  the  same  way,"  he  replied,  turning  to 
recapture  his  horse,  which  was  grazing  in  a  glade 
close  by. 

They  walked  on  then,  side  by  side,  till  he  had 
seen  her  within  her  own  gate. 

"  I  shall  let  you  know  how  our  patient  pro- 
gresses," he  said  as  they  parted ;  and  it  was  with  a 
curious  thrill  of  pleasure  he  said  that  "our". 

The  gout  had  set  its  victim  free  for  the  time, 
and  the  Prince  of  Erris  was  in  paradise. 

"It's  almost  worth  while  to  have  it  for  the  joy 
of  getting  rid  of  it,  Kathaleen  Mavourneen,"  he  said 
to  his  grand-daughter. 

"I  want  to  tell  you,"  she  said,  sitting  down  on 
his  discarded  footstool,  "we  made  a  mistake  about 
him  over  there — "  nodding  her  head  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Ballinacurra  chimneys,  just  visible  among 
the  trees — "  the  Englishman.  We  O'Driscolls,  we're 
too  proud  not  to  own  when  we've  made  a  mistake, 
— done  an  injustice.  He's  a  gentleman,  if  he  is  rich, 
and  he's  kind,  and  he  has  no  intention  of  hunting 
the  deer  which  are  your  property,  he  says,  and  it 
isn't  his  fault  that  he  bought  Ballinacurra,  and  he 
desires  very  much  the  privilege  of  knowing  you, 
Grandpapa." 

"Why,  child,  what  do  you  mean?  Wasn't  it 
yourself  that  stuffed  my  head  with  stories  against 

82 


THE  FOX 

him,  and  set  me  on  to  make  it  impossible  for  him 
to  keep  the  hounds  ?  If  he  withdraws  about  the 
deer  and  acknowledges  they  are  ours,  why  I  don't  see 
anything  against  him,  except  that  he's  an  English- 
man, and  that  he  can't  help.  It  would  be  un- 
generous for  us  to  visit  that  or  his  riches  upon  him, 
eh,  Kathaleen?" 

"  Quite  right,  Grandpapa,"  said  Kathaleen  seri- 
ously, and  then  proceeded  to  tell  him  the  story  of 
the  fox,  and  to  repeat  a  portion  of  Sir  Adrian's 
conversation  as  they  walked  home  together,  which 
showed  quite  the  proper  feeling  towards  the 
O'Driscolls,  who  had  been  a  power  in  the  land 
before  ever  an  Ingestre  had  followed  a  Norman 
robber  into  England  and  much  more  to  the  same 
purport.  Be  sure  Sir  Adrian's  remarks  lost  no- 
thing in  Miss  Kathaleen 's  repetition  of  them. 

The  very  next  day  the  Prince  of  Erris's  ancient 
bath-chair  was  seen  trundling  up  the  avenue  of 
Ballinacurra ;  and  the  prince's  apologies  for  not 
having  made  an  opportunity  earlier  of  welcoming 
Sir  Adrian  Ingestre  to  the  county,  which  was 
O'Driscoll  country,  left  nothing  to  be  desired. 

The  little  fox's  paw  mended  in  time;  but  be- 
fore he  had  the  choice  offerred  to  him  of  being 
a  pet  or  having  his  liberty  to  be  hunted,  Miss 
O'Driscoll  had  promised  to  change  her  name  to 

83 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

Ingestre.  And  the  fox,  having  made  his  choice, 
became  the  permanent  inmate  of  a  very  comfortable 
house  at  Ballinacurra.  Only  sad  to  relate  he  some- 
times raided  a  hen-roost,  when  he  got  loose,  like 
any  of  his  wild  brethren.  But  Lady  Ingestre's 
fox  was  a  privileged  beast,  and  her  ladyship's 
partiality  for  him  was  quite  shared  by  Sir  Adrian, 
to  the  grief  of  many  honest  dogs. 


84 


THE  INTEEVIEW. 

ANTHONY  Vance  sat  in  his  shady  garden  on  a 
scorching  day  and  felt  the  wind  from  the  sea  in 
his  face,  and  sipped  at  his  lemon  squash,  and 
wondered  how  people  endured  life  in  London  on 
such  a  day. 

A  year  ago  he  had  known.  A  year  ago  he  had 
been  a  literary  failure,  glad  if  one  arrow  out  of  ten 
hit  the  mark,  content  with  shabby  prices,  asking 
himself  day  after  day  why  he  didn't  go  and  earn 
an  honest  penny  as  a  scavenger ;  but  still  somehow 
sticking  to  the  work  because  it  delighted  him  for 
its  own  sake. 

Then  had  come — success  !  With  success  he  had 
realised  that  the  drawers  and  pigeon-holes  full  of 
rejected  manuscripts  meant  solid  bullion.  He  had 
not  yet  ceased  to  wonder  at  the  state  of  his  bank 
account.  Yet  his  success  had  not  put  him  at 
peace  with  all  men.  On  the  contrary,  while  edition 
after  edition  of  his  novels  congested  the  printing 
presses,  and  editors  bid  against  each  other  for  his 

85 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

dogs'-eared  manuscripts,  his  contempt  for  those  who 
were  so  ready  to  bless  what  they  had  formerly 
banned  grew  steadily.  They  were  not  consistent 
even  in  ignorance.  A  famous  statesman  in  his 
leisure  moments  had  discovered  Anthony  Vance. 
And  lo  !  all  the  silly  sheep  went  after  him,  bleating 
their  admiration,  without  knowing  what  they  ad- 
mired. 

He  had  an  idea  they  might  get  tired  of  him  pre- 
sently, so  he  had  put  a  portion  of  his  year's  profits 
into  this  house  and  grounds.  He  had  always  had 
an  odd  fancy  for  having  a  spot  of  earth  which  he 
could  call  his  own.  Having  discovered  just  the 
place  of  his  dreams  he  secluded  himself  within  it. 
London  in  vain  invited  the  new  lion  to  come  and 
roar.  Immensely  distinguished  persons  went  after 
him,  to  no  purpose.  He  was  eight  miles  from  a 
railway  station.  He  answered  none  of  the  letters 
that  asked  for  interviews  or  autographs.  A  hermit 
he  was  among  his  hollyhocks  and  sweet  peas,  his 
plums  and  jargonelles,  except  for  an  occasional  visit 
from  one  or  two  struggling  literary  men  whom  he 
had  known  in  the  old  life,  and  whom  he  helped 
with  both  hands.  If  the  sheep  went  after  some 
one  else  and  forgot  him,  he  liked  to  say  to  himself, 
he  would  still  have  Dormers.  He  had  bought  it  out 
and  out.  Why,  if  his  pen  dried  up  he  could  almost 

86 


THE  INTEEVIEW 

live  on  the  fruits  and  vegetables  of  its  delightful 
garden. 

He  sipped  at  his  lemon  squash  and  he  watched 
a  bee  busy  itself  in  a  bed  of  mignonette.  A  shade 
of  sadness  lay  on  his  expressive  face,  which  was 
more  lined  than  it  ought  to  be  at  thirty-seven.  He 
was  thinking  of  Mary  Granger.  What  a  paradise 
the  garden  would  have  been  if  Mary  in  her  white 
dress  walked  among  the  flowers  !  How  they  had 
dreamt  of  such  an  earthly  paradise  in  the  old  days  ! 
How  they  had  planned  and  saved,  putting  shilling 
to  shilling,  till  they  should  have  enough  to  rent  and 
furnish  a  little  country  cottage,  with  a  kitchen 
garden  and  a  riot  of  flowers  up  to  the  door,  under 
the  gabled  windows.  But  before  that  was  reached 
Mary,  exposed  to  many  weathers  in  her  life  as  a 
daily  governess,  sickened  and  died.  He  had  only 
the  gentle  ghost  of  her  left  to  him  as  his  life-long 
companion.  No  wonder  he  was  bitter  over  the 
success  that  had  come  to  him  too  late. 

He  must  have  nodded  asleep  in  the  warm,  scented 
air,  to  the  hum  of  the  honey-clogged  bees.  Sud- 
denly he  started  awake.  Mrs.  Hale,  his  house- 
keeper, was  speaking  to  him. 

"I  was  .  .  .  thinking,  Mrs.  Hale,"  he  said. 
"What  did  you  say?" 

"I'm  sorry  to  disturb  you,  sir,"  Mrs.  Hale  said 

87 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

respectfully,  "but  there's  a  poor  thing,  a  lady,  if  I 
ever  see  one,  at  the  hall-door.  She  'ave  come  to  ask 
an  interview  with  you,  and  'ave  walked  all  the  way 
from  Turston.  She  do  look  fit  to  drop.  I  'ave 
told  her  that  you  never  gives  interviews,  but  she 
looks  so  pitiful  that  I've  left  her  sitting  down  in 
the  porch.  With  your  permission,  sir,  I'll  ask  her 
into  the  parlour,  and  make  her  a  cup  of  tea." 

The  lion  glared. 

"  Did  I  ask  her  to  walk  eight  miles  in  this  broil- 
ing sun  ?  The  man  who  sent  her  to  do  it  ought 
to  be  hanged.  Do  what  you  like,  Mrs.  Hale,  only, 
don't  let  her  into  my  study.  I  don't  want  her  to 
describe  how  picturesque  my  carpet  slippers  look 
under  the  chair,  nor  to  record  that  I  keep  a 
syphon  and  a  bottle  of  whisky  on  a  side-table. 
You'd  better  lock  her  in  the  parlour,  or  else  she'll 
be  creeping  round  looking  for  copy." 

"  Not  she,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Hale.  "  Ive  seen  that 
sort,  brazen  'ussies.  But  this  is  a  sweet,  pretty 
thing  and  a  born  lady." 

Mr.  Vance  dozed  off  again  and  dreamt  that 
Mary  had  come  to  interview  him  and  he  had  re- 
fused to  see  her  and  she  had  gone  away.  And 
then,  realising  what  he  had  done,  he  made  a  great 
struggle  to  overtake  and  bring  her  back,  but  his 
feet  were  tangled  in  some  obstacle  and  he  could 

88 


THE  INTEEVIEW 

not  move,  struggle  as  he  would.  He  realised  the 
anguish  of  his  helplessness  to  the  full,  and  while 
he  struggled  was  conscious  of  the  immense  waste 
of  loneliness  beyond, — the  years  and  days  in  which 
Mary  would  never  come  again.  And  then,  making 
one  frantic  supreme  effort,  he  freed  himself  and 
was  awake. 

"  She  wouldn't  take  the  tea,  sir,"  Mrs.  Hale  was 
saying  at  his  side,  "  though  she  thanked  me  as 
sweet  as  sweet.  But  she  'ave  rested  a  little  and 
is  gone  again,  climbing  up  that  there  dusty  hill  in 
the  sun.  'Tis  enough  to  give  her  sunstroke,  so 
it  is.  An'  how  she'll  ever  get  back  to  Turston  is 
what  I  wouldn't  like  to  say." 

"  Good  Heavens  !  "  said  Mr.  Vance,  jumping  up. 
''Did  I  ask  her  to  come?" 

He  rushed  past  Mrs.  Hale  through  the  glass  door 
and  along  the  cool  hall,  with  its  tesselated  pave- 
ment and  green  distempered  walls  hung  with  water- 
colours.  He  seized  his  Panama  hat  from  the  rack 
as  he  passed,  and  rushed  forth,  quite  unconscious 
that  he  was  wearing  his  slippers  and  that  his 
collar  had  got  pushed  awry  during  his  slumbers. 
He  was  out  of  the  little  wicket  gate  in  a  second 
of  time.  Yes,  she  was  in  sight  still,  thank  God ! 
The  influence  of  the  dream  was  still  about  him. 
The  little  white  figure, — she  was  wearing  white 

89 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

as  Mary  had  done  in  his  dream — was  nearly  at  the 
top  of  the  hill.  Well,  thank  Heaven,  he  wasn't 
yet  pursy.  He  was  a  bit  out  of  training,  but  he 
could  still  put  on  a  spurt ;  and  the  girl  went  slow- 
foot. 

He  overtook  heron  the  crest  of  the  hill.  "I 
beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  "  my  housekeeper  made 
a  mistake.  I  am  Mr.  Vance :  won't  you  come 
back?," 

The  girl  turned  and  looked  at  him,  and  a  slow 
wave  of  colour  broke  over  her  face.  She  was  very 
young,  not  more  than  twenty  he  judged.  She  had 
a  soft  pale  face,  not  so  unlike  Mary's,  but  prettier 
than  Mary's.  There  was  no  treachery  in  his  think- 
ing so,  to  whom  Mary's  face  represented  immortal 
Beauty.  She  had  fine  pale  hair,  held  back  by  a 
lavender  ribbon.  Her  lips  were  a  soft  pale  red  and 
her  smile  was  gentle.  Her  large  eyes  had  a  look 
of  wonder,  the  eyes  of  the  enthusiast.  Her  temples 
from  which  the  hair  rolled  back  in  silky  gold 
waves  were  over-thin,  her  forehead  over-developed. 
She  still  panted  a  little  from  the  exertion  of  her 
climb  and  her  smile  was  tired. 

As  he  looked  into  her  face  Vance  mentally  apostro- 
phised himself  as  a  brute  and  a  pig.  She  was 
looking  at  him  with  wonder  and  awe,  as  though 
amazed  at  finding  him  a  mere  ordinary  mortal. 

90 


THE  INTEBVIEW 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  she  breathed  softly,  as  she 
turned  and  went  with  him. 

He  led  her  straight  through  tht  house  to  the 
garden,  calling  to  the  housekeeper  as  ha  passed  by 
the  little  stairs  that  led  to  the  kitchen. 

"  We  will  have  our  lunch  in  the  garden  if  you 
please,  Mrs.  Hale,  and  please  to  stand  a  bottle  of 
claret  in  the  sun." 

Mrs.  Hale  came  after  them  with  the  claret  and 
set  it  in  the  mignonette  bed.  She  smiled  benevo- 
lently on  them.  Mr.  Vance  had  put  the  young 
lady  into  the  most  comfortable  chair  and  pushed 
a  footstool  under  her  feet.  She  sank  among  the 
cushions  as  though  she  would  never  want  to  leave 
them  again. 

The  lunch  was  not  long  in  coming,  a  roast  fowl, 
an  ox  tongue,  served  cold  with  a  delicious  French 
sauce,  a  trifle  and  some  port-wine  jelly ;  fruit,  yet 
warm  with  the  sun,  laid  on  its  own  green  leaves 
on  blue  plates  of  Japan.  Then  black  coffee.  The 
claret  was  warmed  to  perfection. 

The  girl  ate  the  meal  she  so  evidently  needed 
with  an  air  of  mingled  alarm  and  delight.  Her 
face,  now  the  colour  had  come  to  it  and  she  no 
longer  looked  exhausted,  was  very  expressive.  Her 
shy  glances  roamed  about  her,  rested  on  the 
flowers  and  the  butterflies,  on  the  red  gables  of 

91 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

the  house  with  the  diamond-paned  windows,  on 
her  host's  face,  then  came  back  to  the  little  note- 
book which  lay  on  her  lap  all  the  time. 

The  meal  was  over  and  Mr.  Vance  drew  out  his 
cigarette-case.  He  offered  the  contents  to  her  and 
she  declined  with  a  shake  of  her  head.  Her  face 
had  suddenly  become  absorbed,  business-like,  like 
a  child  playing  at  shop,  he  thought :  there  was 
something  very  quaint  about  her. 

"Well,"  he  said,  having  lit  his  own  cigarette, 
"  now  you  can  fire  away.  I  will  answer  any 
questions  you  like  to  ask  me.  Whether  I  like  my 
neckties  plain  or  spotted,  eh  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  reproachfully  and  a  little  red 
came  in  her  cheek. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  offend  you,"  he  said  hastily. 
"  But  that  is  how  they  always  begin." 

"  Oh,  is  it?  I  don't  think  I  could  ever  doit  that 
way." 

She  had  opened  her  note-book  and  drawn  forth 
her  pencil.  She  looked  down  at  her  lap  and  up 
at  him.  Her  lips  opened  as  though  about  to  speak, 
then  closed  again. 

"  Is  there  no  other  way  of  doing  it  than  that?  " 
she  asked  in  evident  distress.  "  I  mean  about 
the  neckties  ?  " 

"  You've  never  done  it  before  ?  " 

92 


THE  INTEEVIEW 

"Never;  it  was  a  tremendous  thing  to  do,  but 
then  Mother  has  been  so  ill,  and  we  are  very  poor." 

"  How  did  you  come  to  do  it  ?  " 

The  eyes  fluttered  before  him  like  moths  in  the 
twilight. 

"  It  was  like  this.  I  met  an  editor,  Mr.  White 
of  the  Langham  Magazine,  at  our  vicar's  house  last 
spring.  I  always  wanted  to  publish.  I've  written 
reams  and  reams  of  stones  and  poems.  We  talked 
about  you.  You  know  I  knew  your  work  long  be- 
fore you  became  famous.  I  tracked  it  through  the 
magazines  whenever  I  could — oh,  shall  I  ever  for- 
get '  To  Mary  Lost '  and  '  Heart-Hunger  '  and 
1  The  Soul's  Bitterness?'" — she  named  verses  of 
his  which  not  even  the  literary  curio-hunter  had  yet 
disinterred  from  their  obscurity.  "  He  said  to  me, 
*  If  you  could  persuade  him  to  give  you  an  inter- 
view for  the  Langham  I'd  give  you  twenty  guineas 
for  it.'  I  thought  it  was  a  wild  jest  at  the  time. 
Now  that  Mother  is  ill  it  came  back  to  me.  Twenty 
guineas  !  Do  you  think  he  was  in  earnest  ?  Why, 
it  would  mean  Mother's  dear  life." 

"And  I  nearly  sent  you  away!  "  he  said,  con- 
science-stricken. 

"  But  how  am  I  to  do  it  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Don't  do  it,"  he  replied.  "  I'll  do  it  to-night 
for  you.  I'll  give  you  exclusive  details.  I  think 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

that  is  the  word.  My  child  I'll  do  a  stunning 
interview  for  you,  so  that  White  of  the  Langham 
will  think  he  has  got  good  value  for  his  twenty 
guineas.  I  shall  post  it  to  you  to-night.  No,  by 
the  way,  no  post  goes  out  from  the  village  till 
half-past  two  to-morrow.  I'll  ride  with  it  to  you 
to-morrow  if  you're  not  beyond  the  limit  of  a  cycle 
ride." 

"At  Honeybourne,"  she  said.  "  A  mile  the  other 
side  of  Turston.  I  walked  all  the  way." 

"  You  poor  child  !  And  you  were  going  to  walk 
back.  It  would  have  been  eighteen  miles  ?  " 

"  I  ought  to  be  starting  to  walk  back  now." 

"As  though  I  should  permit  it.  I  shall  send 
for  a  carriage  from  the  inn.  Hush,  child.  I  am 
old  enough  to  be  your  father.  Think  of  me  as  a 
fellow-creature  who  will  not  have  your  death  from 
sunstroke  laid  to  his  charge.  And  your  mother — 
what  would  she  say  to  the  eighteen  miles  ?  " 

"  She  thinks  I  am  spending  the  day  at  the 
vicarage.  Elsie,  my  sister,  is  in  charge.  I  did 
not  dare  tell  Mother  beforehand.  I  shall  tell 
her  when  I  return,  and  she  will  thank  you  to- 
morrow." 

They  talked  a  little  longer.  Never  before  had 
the  much  belauded  Anthony  Vance  received  a 
flattery  so  unconscious  and  exquisite.  She  had 

94 


THE  INTEKVIEW 

indeed  tracked  his  work  in  obscure  places  in  the 
old  days  when  he  had  thought  that  the  seed  fell 
on  rocky  ground.  If  he  had  only  known  the  time 
need  not  have  been  so  bitter. 

He  sent  her  away  in  the  victoria  from  the  inn, 
packed  in  with  exquisite  flowers  and  fruits  for  her 
mother.  When  he  had  watched  her  across  the 
brow  of  the  hill  he  went  indoors,  and  wrote  such 
a  full  and  detailed  account  of  himself  as  he  never 
thought  to  have  done  for  mortal. 

"  I  know  White  likes  his  measure  pressed-down 
and  running-over,"  he  said  to  himself, — "  and  the 
child  shall  be  sure  of  her  twenty  guineas." 

He  dreamt  that  night  the  oddest  dream,  that 
Mary  came  to  him  with  the  girl  of  the  interview, 
whose  name  was  Lucy  Marsden,  and  placed  the 
girl's  hand  in  his,  and  with  the  selfless  and  radiant 
smile  which  she  used  to  wear  passed  out  of  sight. 

But  he  was  not  yet  ready  to  give  up  the  loneli- 
ness in  which  the  ghost  of  Mary  had  been  his  pale 
dear  companion.  He  said  to  himself  as  he  awoke, 
heart-whole  so  far  as  the  living  were  concerned, 
that  all  that  was  over  for  him.  His  wife,  the 
mother  of  his  children,  was  lying  in  Mary's  virgin 
grave.  He  could  not  begin  over  again.  Lacking 
Mary  he  must  be  for  ever  wifeless  and  childless. 

He  felt  a  glow  of  benevolence  as  he  rode  through 

95 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

the  white  dusty  country  to  Honeybourne  the  next 
day,  with  the  "copy"  safe  in  his  pocket. 

He  found  the  Marsdens  in  a  tiny  house ;  at  least 
Mrs.  Marsden,  a  frail,  pretty  woman,  looking  as 
though  she  were  or  would  be  the  victim  of  a  wasting 
disease,  sat  in  an  easy  chair  on  the  lawn.  Her 
daughter  was  fanning  her,  and  came  to  meet  him 
as  the  latch  of  the  gate  clicked  under  his  hand. 
The  little  house  was  behind,  covered  with  autumn 
honeysuckle  and  the  great  purple  clematis. 

The  sick  woman  took  his  hand  into  a  fervent 
clasp. 

"  How  shall  I  ever  thank  you?"  she  asked. 
"  The  child  has  told  me  of  her  temerity  and  your 
goodness.  How  shall  I  ever  thank  you  ?  " 

He  sat  down  beside  her  and  they  talked.  Lucy 
slipped  away  to  get  the  tea  and  left  them  together. 
Their  hearts  went  out  in  friendship  at  the  first 
sight  of  each  other.  Vance  had  known  very  few 
women;  except  Mary  he  had  been  on  terms  of 
intimacy  with  none.  He  was  a  reverent  man  by 
nature  and  Mary  had  made  it  simple  for  him  to 
believe  in  the  goodness  of  women.  Sitting  there 
talking  below  a  chestnut  tree  he  thought  the  very 
fragrance  of  goodness  lay  about  Mrs.  Marsden  like 
a  faint  emanation. 

The   tea,   which  brought  Lucy   and    Elsie,   a 

96 


THE  INTEBVIEW 

younger,  smaller  replica  of  Lucy,  made  the  con- 
versation general ;  but  the  air  seemed  charged 
with  sympathy.  He  felt  loth  to  rise  and  go.  All 
of  a  sudden  he  became  aware  that  he  was  a  very 
lonely  man. 

After  that  he  often  found  his  way  to  Honey- 
bourne.  Mary  visited  his  dreams  as  constantly 
as  of  old.  Sometimes  sh6  came  alone,  sometimes 
with  Lucy  ;  always  she  smiled. 

The  interview  appeared,  and  was  considered  by 
Mr.  White  of  the  Langham  as  cheap  at  twenty 
guineas,  though  he  did  not  say  as  much  to  the 
contributor. 

"  You  were  too  good,"  said  Lucy,  the  day  she 
showed  the  cheque  to  Mr.  Vance.  "I'm  afraid  I 
have  really  no  right  to  keep  it.  But  it  will  tide 
Mother  over  the  worst  part  of  the  winter.  I 
think  I  shall  take  her  to  Bournemouth.  Mr. 
Vance — I  shall  never  interview  any  one  again,  but 
— do  you  think  I  could  get  anything  published? 
I  have  written  so  much,  but  have  never  dared  to 
show  it  to  any  one.  But  now,  I  want  money  so 
dreadfully  for  Mother." 

"You  will  show  them  to  me,"  he  said.     "But 

meanwhile,  Lucy  child — I   am   quite   an  elderly 

person  by  you,  and  the  girl  who  ought  to  have 

been  my  wife  is  in  Heaven  these  many  years  back ; 

7  97 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

her  name  was  Mary  :  she  was  the  sweetest  woman. 
Meanwhile,  Lucy  child,  will  you  come  again  as 
you  did  that  day  in  August,  and  .  .  .  and  stay 
with  me?  I  am  desperately  lonely,  Lucy,  and 
somehow  I  think  that  Mary  pities  my  loneliness." 

"  You  mean "  she  began,  stammering. 

"  Let  me  take  care  of  you  and  your  mother  and 
Elsie.  My  life  has  been  so  empty  since  Mary 
left  me." 

"It  was  she  that  was  in  the  poems,"  she  said, 
with  a  tender  light  on  her  face.  "  I  think  I  knew 
about  Mary  all  the  time.  I  shall  never  be  jealous 
of  her,  never  want  to  push  her  into  the  background 
of  your  life." 

"  That  means,  yes  ?  "  he  asked  with  a  joy  in  his 
face  that  showed  him  young. 

"I  have  been  in  love  with  you  since  I  was  fifteen," 
she  said ;  and  her  eyes  were  like  Mary's  eyes  in  the 
days  of  their  love. 


A  HOMELESS  COUPLE. 

THEY  were  like  a  couple  of  old  withered  leaves 
that  dance  in  the  sun  on  an  autumn  day  and  only 
await  the  storm- wind  to  blow  them  into  the  abyss. 
They  had  wandered  about  the  Continent  for  so 
long  that  they  were  known  at  pretty  well  all  the 
cheap  hotels  of  the  pleasure  resorts  of  Europe,  the 
old  man  with  the  military  air,  and  the  tall  thin 
wife,  who  was  not  so  much  younger  than  he,  yet 
kept  the  air  of  youth  deceptively,  unless  one  were 
to  see  her  in  a  strong  light. 

It  was  all  very  well  while  the  summer  lasted,  and 
they  fraternised  with  pleasant  people  from  home 
who  were  making  holiday  abroad.  It  was  another 
matter  when  the  holiday-makers  went  home,  so 
many  of  them  with  a  joyous  air,  as  though  after 
all  home  was  best.  Even  at  the  gayest,  however, 
the  two  held  somewhat  aloof  from  their  kind,  as 
though  they  could  not  help  it.  They  clung  to- 
gether. They  were  too  lonely  on  their  plank  in 
the  great  ocean  to  have  anything  really  in  common 

99 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

with  those  who  had  struck  roots  in  the  world. 
They  wanted  to  be  gay  and  friendly,  but  people 
only  pretended  that  they  succeeded.  They  were  a 
pair  of  poor  old  ghosts  at  the  banquet  of  life,  and 
they  were  never  warmed  and  fed,  however  much 
they  might  pretend. 

Time  had  been  when  they  had  had  a  home  like 
other  people  and  the  warmth  of  their  own  hearth 
fire.  That  was  before  Andrew  Despard  had  sunk 
himself  so  deeply  in  prospecting  for  minerals  on  his 
small  estate  that  it  was  impossible  for  them  to  live 
at  home  any  longer.  Years  had  passed  now  since 
they  had  laid  eyes  on  Bawn  Kose,  the  white  house 
with  the  green  shutters  at  the  head  of  the  glen. 
It  was  in  the  hands  of  strangers.  The  grass  had 
covered  the  gashes  Andrew  Despard  had  made  in 
the  green  places ;  the  pits  had  been  filled  in.  It 
was  as  though  the  skin  had  healed  over  a  sore. 

Only  Nora  Despard's  heart  carried  the  memory 
of  the  place  like  a  live  thing  that  called  her  home 
of  evenings  and  in  the  quiet  hours  of  the  night. 
Her  heart  was  always  hungry  for  Bawn  Eose, 
the  pleasant,  comfortable  place  in  the  hands  of 
strangers.  She  did  not  talk  of  it  to  Andrew  as 
they  took  their  interminable  walks  abroad  because 
she  was  afraid  to  hurt  him.  But  the  ache  and  the 
pain  of  hunger  never  ceased  in  her  breast.  No 

100 


A  HOMELESS  COUPLE 

wonder  she  was  thin  and  haggard,  that  her  brows 
were  hollow  under  her  brown  hair,  hor  eyes  sunken. 

Sometimes  people  said  that  if  Mrs.  Despard  had 
not  been  so  thin  she  would  have  been  handsome. 
Only  Andrew  Despard  could  have  told  how  hand- 
some she  had  been  when  he  married  her,  how 
bright  and  brown,  and  gay,  the  finest  of  sports- 
women, witty,  frank,  engaging.  Half  the  county 
had  been  mad  for  her.  But  to  be  sure  to  poor  old 
Andrew,  Nora  had  never  changed.  She  was  still 
the  Nora  of  his  youth,  not  the  haggard  woman, 
growing  old,  for  whom  strangers  sometimes  felt  a 
pang  of  pity. 

It  was  worst  of  all  when  at  the  end  of  the 
season,  all  the  happy  folks  gone  home,  they 
lingered  on  in  some  sea-side  place  by  courtesy  or 
pity  of  their  landlady.  It  was  better  for  health, 
Nora  decided,  than  the  stuffy  town  lodgings  to 
which  presently  they  would  have  to  go. 

But  how  sad  it  was  in  October,  when  everybody 
was  gone  away,  and  the  big  house  was  full  of 
empty  rooms,  and  they  huddled  in  warm  garments 
in  a  bare  salon  which  had  been  pleasant  enough  in 
summer. 

Nora  thought  a  deal  of  health.  It  was  a  night- 
mare of  hers  that  the  time  must  come  when  one 
of  them  should  be  left  alone.  Sometimes  she 

101 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

faced  it  shudder ingly.  When  that  time  came, 
she  prayed — "Dear  God,  let  me  be  left,  for  what 
would  Andrew  do  without  me  ?  "  Her  lot  without 
him  did  not  bear  thinking  on:  but  his  without 
her !  Why  she  could  not  rest  even  in  Heaven  if 
he  was  alone  on  the  earth. 

Sometimes  when  they  were  parted  for  a  little 
while,  when  Nora  went  to  the  nearest  town  on 
matters  of  business,  it  was  most  pitiable  to  see  old 
Andrew  waiting  about  corners,  straining  his  old 
eyes  when  it  was  time  for  her  to  return.  Once  a 
very  unhappy  woman  whose  husband  had  out- 
raged and  betrayed  her  had  made  to  a  silent  circle 
the  remark  that  she  thought  Mrs.  Despard  ought 
to  be  a  very  happy  woman.  But  there  were  very 
few  to  envy  poor  Nora  the  devotion  of  her  sad  old 
broken-down  husband. 

They  had  never  had  any  children.  Perhaps  if 
they  had  had  Andrew  would  not  have  been  so 
reckless  with  his  small  property.  He  would  have 
had  a  sense  of  responsibility  to  make  him  careful. 
It  had  been  so  easy  to  go  on  spending  the  money 
when  there  had  been  only  Nora  and  himself  to 
think  of.  It  had  never  occurred  to  Nora  to  re- 
proach him  in  the  slightest  degree  in  her  own 
mind  because  he  had  not  thought  of  her.  To  be 
sure  they  were  all  in  all  to  each  other.  They  were 

102 


A  HOMELESS  COUPLE 

so  entirely  one  that  she  could  not  have  imputed 
blame  to  him  without  attaching  it  to  herself. 

"  My  poor  girl,"  Andrew  would  say  sometimes, 
"  to  think  of  the  life  I  have  condemned  you  to ! 
Why,  if  I  close  my  eyes  I  can  see  you  on  Colleen, 
riding  off  to  the  meet  of  the  Slaneys  and  myself 
beside  you  on  the  Don.  Do  you  remember  when 
we  used  to  have  the  meet  at  Bawn  Kose  ?  I  can 
see  you  standing  at  the  head  of  the  table  pouring 
out  the  tea  and  coffee,  with  your  hat  on  your  head 
and  your  habit  held  up  on  one  arm,  and  the  portrait 
of  your  uncle  Nick  looking  down  at  you  from  over 
the  chimney-piece." 

"  Those  were  good  times,"  Nora  would  say, 
pressing  his  arm  fondly. 

He  liked  to  talk  of  the  old  times.  In  fact  the 
older  he  became  the  more  he  lived  in  the  happy 
old  days  and  forgot  the  sad  later  years.  His 
memories  stabbed  her,  kept  the  edge  of  hunger 
keen,  yet  she  humoured  him  as  she  would  have 
humoured  him  in  anything.  He  grew  old  very 
fast.  He  was  barely  turned  sixty,  yet  he  was  as 
old  as  another  man  at  seventy.  Sometimes  Nora 
asked  herself  fearfully  what  she  was  going  to  do 
when  he  became  really  old,  and  ought  to  have 
comfort  and  nursing.  It  seemed  to  herself  that 
there  had  never  been  any  real  comfort,  real  warmth 

103 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

in  their  lives  since  they  had  left  Bawn  Rose.  Oh, 
Bawn  Rose,  with  its  trout-stream  singing  and 
chattering  over  its  gold  and  silver  stones,  its 
million  birds,  its  tangled  orchard,  its  drifts  of 
lovely  single  roses  on  the  lawn  !  How  comfortable 
and  home-like  were  the  rooms  !  How  pleasant 
the  people,  who  never  forgot  that  the  Despards 
were  an  old  honourable  family,  and  Nora  herself 
an  O'Moore  descended  from  princes !  If  they 
could  only  go  home  and  end  their  days  at  Bawn 
Rose !  But  it  was  as  far  away  from  them  as 
Heaven. 

Her  thoughts  went  on  idly  to  her  cousin  Dick. 
Richard  O'Moore — The  O'Moore.  Andrew  was 
talking  away  at  her  side  of  the  old  days,  forgetting 
while  he  talked  of  how  far  he  had  travelled  away 
from  them.  With  the  telepathy  which  often  ex- 
ists between  an  attached  husband  and  wife  he  also 
thought  of  O'Moore. 

"Poor  Dick,"  he  said,  "  I  wonder  what  became 
of  him.  You  couldn't  have  done  worse  if  you'd 
married  Dick,  Nora." 

"  I  couldn't  have  done  better  than  marry  the 
man  of  my  heart  anyhow,"  she  said  cheerfully. 

They  had  often  discussed  Dick.  He  and  Andrew 
had  been  rivals  in  their  love  for  Nora.  She  had 
accepted  Andrew  and  Dick  had  flung  himself 

104 


A  HOMELESS  COUPLE 

away  out  of  the  country  to  the  Australian  gold- 
fields.  It  was  a  long  time  ago.  There  had  been 
neither  tale  nor  tidings  of  Dick.  He  must  have 
gone  under  long  ago.  And  as  for  his  old  house, 
Dysart,  it  had  been  a  great  ruin  before  ever  the 
Despards  had  gone  into  exile.  It  was  quite  a  long 
time  since  they  had  remembered  to  talk  about 
Dick. 

They  walked  back  to  the  empty  hotel,  Nora 
fiddling  absently  with  the  long  bog-oak  chain  she 
wore  about  her  neck  as  they  talked  of  Dick.  It 
had  been  Dick's  gift  to  her  long  ago.  It  was  not 
pretty  and  had  little  value.  Perhaps  else  it  might 
have  gone  the  way  of  her  other  pretty  things. 
She  had  an  unconquerable  habit  of  generosity. 
You  had  but  to  admire  a  trinket  and  it  was  yours 
if  you  would  accept  it.  She  had  found  a  good 
many  people  at  one  time  or  another  willing  to 
accept  her  pretty  things  and  go  away  and  forget 
ler.  What  was  the  use  of  hoarding  them,  she 
asked  ?  There  was  no  one  to  come  after  her. 
Why  shouldn't  they  give  pleasure  to  a  girl  or  a 
pretty  kind  woman  ? 

Although  they  were  too  poor  to  live  in  their  own 
country,  Nora  had  never  learnt  to  hold  her  hand. 
Where  children  were  concerned  she  would  give 
them  anything.  She  adored  children.  So  did  An- 

105 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

drew  for  the  matter  of  that.  They  never  talked 
of  the  little  life  that  had  fluttered  into  the  world 
for  an  hour  and  out  of  it  again.  But  Nora  had 
never  forgotten  it,  nor  had  Andrew  if  one  could 
judge  by  the  way  he  blinked  his  poor  old  eyes 
and  winced  with  a  quiver  of  his  face  when  he 
saw  Nora  playing  with  children. 

She  could  never  keep  away  from  children.  At 
the  summer  hotels  she  might  be  a  ghost  among 
the  merry-makers,  the  tall  thin  old-young  woman 
with  her  shabby  frocks,  but  to  the  children  she 
was  welcome.  They  spoke  a  common  language  of 
the  heart.  The  children  never  found  her  drab  and 
sad  and  old.  As  she  sat  on  the  sands  with  them, 
or  in  the  salon  of  a  wet  day,  playing  rowdy  games 
in  which  she  became  flushed  and  dishevelled,  she 
ceased  to  be  a  thin  old  ghost.  Andrew  coming 
upon  her  one  day,  with  her  hair  about  her  shoulders, 
laughing  as  madly  as  the  merriest  child,  went 
away  again  with  his  hand  over  his  eyes.  He  had 
seen  the  ghost  of  his  wife's  youth. 

"  We  had  better  move  next  week,"  Nora  said, 
as  they  went  up  the  steep  village  street.  "  Madame 
grows  restive.  She  wants  to  shut  up  the  house 
for  the  winter.  I've  written  to  Madame  Cappeau 
to  have  our  rooms  ready." 

Andrew  sighed.     The   winter  in  the  Eue  des 

106 


A  HOMELESS  COUPLE 

Herbalistes  was  a  melancholy  prospect.  The  En- 
glish-speaking population  of  the  fown  were  like 
the  Despards  themselves,  needy  and  hopeless. 
Winter  used  to  be  good  at  Bawn  Eose.  There 
was  the  hunting.  Andrew  had  almost  forgotten 
the  feel  of  his  legs  across  a  horse.  And  he  didn't 
like  that  winter  population ;  Nora  didn't.  It  con- 
sisted of  people  who  had  escaped  their  creditors, 
women  with  a  past,  all  sorts  of  needy  adventurers. 
No  one  had  suffered  for  the  Despards'  misfortunes, 
no  one  but  themselves.  Amid  that  winter  popula- 
tion Andrew  could  hold  his  head  high. 

But  he  was  lonely  as  Nora  was  lonely.  There 
was  nothing  really  in  common  between  them  and 
that  winter  population.  Old  Andrew,  despite  his 
broken-down  air,  had  a  look  of  clean  living  ;  carried 
his  head  fearlessly ;  he  was  not  like  those  furtive- 
looking  men  with  the  eyes  that  avoided  a  direct 
gaze,  any  more  than  Nora  was  like  the  cheap,  over- 
dressed women.  Andrew  and  Nora  lived  their  own 
lives  amid  the  winter  population. 

Yes,  they  would  be  sorry  to  go.  The  summer 
had  been  long  and  pleasant.  The  people  had  been 
pleasanter  and  kinder  than  usual.  They  had 
made  friends  witfc  some  of  the  fisher  folk  and 
the  animals.  The  air,  even  in  October,  was  not 
languid.  It  was  living  and  pure  and  strong.  The 

107 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

narrow  streets  of  the  town  were  evil-smelling. 
The  sun  hardly  struck  down  between  the  high 
houses ;  there  were  abominations  underfoot  among 
the  uncleansed  cobble-stones. 

They  met  M.  le  Facteur  coming  down  the 
theatrical  street,  with  its  coloured  walls  and  green 
and  white  shutters.  M.  le  Facteur  was  trolling  a 
song  in  a  rich  baritone.  It  was  like  a  scene  in  an 
opera ;  the  red  and  blue  uniform  of  the  gendarme, 
the  white  cap  of  an  old  woman  sitting  in  the 
midst  of  her  butter  and  eggs  in  a  long  country 
cart,  added  to  the  illusion. 

M.  le  Facteur  swept  off  his  blue  cap  to  Monsieur 
and  Madame  with  a  flash  of  white  teeth.  He  had 
left  a  letter  for  Monsieur  at  the  hotel. 

The  letter  excited  no  anticipations.  It  was  not 
time  for  the  small  quarterly  dividends  on  which 
the  Despards  lived.  Between  the  arrivals  of  those 
their  post-bag  was  apt  to  be  scanty  and  uninterest- 
ing. Sometimes  one  of  those  chance  acquaintances 
would  write  or  send  a  newspaper.  An  English 
newspaper,  even  if  it  were  old,  was  a  great  boon  to 
Andrew. 

In  the  entresol  of  the  hotel  they  found  the  letter, 
a  blue  official-looking  letter.  While  Andrew  took 
it  and  turned  it  about,  wondering  who  it  could  be 
from  before  opening  it,  Nora's  attention  was  other- 

108 


A  HOMELESS  COUPLE 

wise  engaged.  There  was  a  placid,  rosy  middle- 
aged  woman  sitting  in  the  entresol  amid  a  pile  of 
luggage.  On  her  lap  was  a  beautifu'  dark-haired, 
dark-eyed  child,  a  boy  of  about  three  years  old. 
Who  could  these  belated  arrivals  be  ?  Why  they 
were  as  much  out  of  place  at  the  hotel  as  would 
be  swallows  flying  homeward  in  autumn. 

Nora  looked  at  the  child  and  the  child  at  Nora. 
The  boy  laughed  and  then  hid  his  face  in  his 
nurse's  comfortable  breast  with  a  bewitching  shy- 
ness. Nora  put  out  her  arms  to  him.  They  were 
comfortable  arms  for  children  as  many  children 
knew.  The  nurse  coughed  and  then  spoke. 

"Be  you  Mrs.  Despard,  ma'am?"  she  asked. 
The  accent  was  a  west  country  accent ;  Nora 
only  knew  that  it  was  pleasant  and  homely. 

"  Yes ;  I  am  Mrs.  Despard,"  she  said  ;  but  just 
then  old  Andrew  broke  in  with  a  sound  between  a 
laugh  and  a  sob.  He  was  holding  the  letter  in  a 
trembling  hand. 

"  Why,"  he  said,  "  Nora.  Poor  Dick,  the  poor 
fellow  !  How  odd  that  we  should  have  been  talk- 
ing of  him  !  The  kind  fellow,  to  remember  us  all 
this  time.  This  must  be  Dick's  child.  Do  you 
understand,  Nora  ? "  He  was  holding  out  the 
letter  to  her.  "  Poor  Dick  is  dead.  He  has  asked 
us  to  take  the  child.  This  little  man  is  heir  to  a 

109 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

great  fortune.  Dick  gives  us  the  care  of  the  child 
and  a  big  income,  a  big  income  to  keep  him  with. 
He  asks  us  to  buy  back  Dysart,  to  rebuild  it,  for 
the  heir.  But  he  thinks  of  the  child  with  us  at 
Bawn  Kose.  See,  here  is  a  copy  of  the  poor 
fellow's  will.  The  letter  is  from  Knight,  Osborne 
and  Barrow,  of  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields.  This  good 
woman  is  anxious  to  get  back  to  her  own  husband 
and  child,  once  she  has  fulfilled  her  trust.  She 
fostered  the  child,  little  Dick,  too.  The  lawyers 
thought  the  best  thing  they  could  do  was  to  send 
her  on  to  us  as  soon  as  they  had  ascertained  our 
address." 

Nora,  in  speechless  wonder,  held  out  her  arms  to 
the  child  and  he  came  to  her.  He  put  his  arms 
about  her  neck.  He  was  of  her  own  kin.  If  her 
boy  had  lived  he  might  have  been  such  another  as 
this  one.  She  looked  at  the  nurse  half -jealously. 
She  wanted  to  have  the  child  to  herself. 

"  You  have  fulfilled  your  trust  splendidly,"  she 
said.  Nora  had  the  air  of  a  great  lady.  That  had 
never  fallen  away  from  her.  "  You  were  very  good 
to  bring  us  the  child  across  the  world,  leaving  your 
own  home  to  do  it.  My  cousin,  Mr.  O'Moore, 
must  have  had  great  confidence  in  you,  and  it  was 
well-founded." 

"Mr.  O'Moore  put  me  and  mine  beyond  the 
110 


A  HOMELESS  COUPLE 

reach  of  want  for  ever,"  the  woman  said.  "  In  a 
year  or  two  we  look  to  come  home  to  Devonshire 
and  buy  a  little  farm  with  what  he  gave  us.  There 
is  nothing  I  wouldn't  do  for  the  child  of  the  poor 
gentleman  that's  gone." 

"  You  are  in  a  hurry  to  get  back." 

"  I  have  my  passage  taken  by  Saturday's  boat. 
I  look  to  see  some  of  the  old  people  in  Devonshire 
betwixt  now  and  then." 

"  Why,  you  shall  go  by  the  evening  boat,"  Nora 
said,  secretly  delighted.  "I  don't  think  the  child 
will  make  strange  with  me." 

"  Any  one  would  think  he'd  known  you  from  the 
time  he  was  born,"  the  nurse  said  admiringly. 

"You  know  that  it  means  Bawn  Kose?"  An- 
drew said  later  to  his  wife.  He  was  in  a  daze  over 
lis  own  good  fortune,  over  the  wonderful  salvation 
that  had  come  to  them  after  all  these  years.  He 
iad  to  say  it  over  to  himself,  he  wanted  to  have  it 

dd  to  him,  to  bring  the  realisation  nearer. 

"I  know  that  it  means  Bawn  Kose,"  Nora  said 
in  a  deep  voice  of  happiness.  "  More,  I  know  that 
it  means  the  child." 

She  was  standing  looking  down  at  the  boy  in 
ds  little  cot.  He  was  fast  asleep.  She  had  her 
jleeves  rolled  above  her  elbows,  and  her  arms  were 
yet  white  and  round.  She  had  given  the  boy  his 

111 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

bath  before  she  put  him  to  bed,  and  the  unwonted 
task  had  brought  the  colour  to  her  face.  Why, 
what  change  had  come  over  everything  ?  The  hotel 
with  all  its  echoing  spaces  was  no  longer  desolate. 
The  wind  that  cried  around  the  house  was  no 
longer  the  keen  of  a  banshee.  It  made  one  think 
how  pleasant  it  would  be  to  go  home  to  one's  own 
fireside.  Home !  How  exquisite  the  word  sounded  ! 
They  were  going  home  to  Bawn  Rose,  to  Bawn 
Rose  !  How  good  God  was  !  God  bless  poor  Dick, 
the  kind  fellow,  who  had  requited  the  pain  she 
had  given  him  long  ago  by  giving  her  Bawn  Rose 
and  the  child  I 

"If  I  were  to  wake  up  to-morrow  morning, 
Andrew,  and  find  that  it  was  all  a  dream  and  that 
we  had  to  go  to  the  Rue  des  Herbalistes  after  all, 
I  believe  I  should  die  of  it,"  she  said. 

Andrew  placed  his  hand  over  his  eyes  as  he 
looked  at  her. 

"  You  are  a  pretty  woman  still,  Nora,"  he  said. 
"  The  joy  has  brought  your  youth  back." 

"I  shall  have  to  be  young,"  she  said,  "to  play 
with  him,"  indicating  the  child. 


113 


A  LETTEK  OF  INTKODUCTION. 

WHEN  Kichard  Langrishe  walked  into  the  little 
hamlet  of  Kavigot  it  was  evident  that  the  place 
was  en  fete.  An  arch  of  paper  roses  spanned  the 
picturesque  street.  The  villagers  were  in  their 
holiday  clothes  in  which  they  looked  less  interest- 
ing than  in  their  work-a-day  garments.  A  girl 
in  white  muslin  passed  across  the  street  from  one 
steep  red-roofed  cottage  to  another.  The  whole 
place  basked  sleepily  in  the  sunshine  of  an  August 
day,  and  was  brilliant, — blue  skies,  hot  white  road, 
white  houses,  red  roofs,  green  shutters. 

He  marched  up  to  one  of  the  half-glass  doors 
which  bore  above  it  the  legend  "  Kestaurant  ".  In 
Bavigot  people  seemed  to  live  by  being  restaura- 
teurs to  each  other,  so  often  did  the  inscription 
occur.  He  ordered  an  omelet,  some  slices  of  cold 
ham,  a  roll  and  butter,  a  bottle  of  white  wine  and 
coffee. 

While  he  waited  he  walked  across  to  the  church 
to  inspect  it.  It  was  a  new  building  and  had  little 

8  113 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

to  show  of  interest.  The  general  garishness  of  its 
decorations  was  agreeably  veiled  at  this  moment 
by  the  cloud  of  blue  and  white  banners  which 
filled  the  middle  distances.  Their  ribbons  fluttered 
in  the  sea  wind  which  he  had  admitted  by  the  open 
door.  There  was  something  appealing,  feminine, 
about  the  sound. 

A  bird  beat  its  little  wings  against  the  high  lan- 
cet windows  which  were  not  made  to  open.  He 
had  a  compunction  for  the  bird,  and  returning  set 
both  doors  of  the  church  wide,  so  that  the  blaze  of 
real  sunlight  outside  might  win  the  captive  from 
the  delusion  of  the  pane.  With  some  anxiety 
for  its  fate  he  waited,  hearing  the  soft  body  thud 
against  the  glass.  He  measured  the  distance  with 
his  eye,  wondering  if  it  would  be  necessary  to 
capture  the  bird  against  its  will  to  restore  it  to 
liberty. 

His  attention  was  distracted  for  a  moment  by 
the  prie-dieu  on  which  he  rested  his  hand  while  he 
waited.  It  was  framed  in  black  wood ;  it  had  a 
velvet  cushion,  and  was  one  of  three  similarly 
furnished ;  there  was  a  brass  plate  on  it.  He  read 
the  name  idly, — "  Mdlle.  Suzanne  de  Lorme,"  with 
a  feeling  that  it  was  somehow  familiar. 

He  was  aware  all  at  once  that  the  fluttering  and 
thudding  of  the  bird  had  ceased.  The  little  creature 

114 


A  LETTEE  OF  INTBODUCTION 

had  found  its  way  back  to  light  and  air.  He  left 
the  church,  closing  the  heavy  doors  behind  him  as 
he  had  found  them  closed. 

The  omelet  was  excellent.  So  also  was  the 
white  wine.  The  bread  and  butter  said  the  last 
word  of  excellence.  When  he  had  finished  the 
meal  he  found  himself  in  good  humour  with  all  the 
world.  He  lit  his  pipe  in  Madame  Effort's  sanded 
room,  its  small  billiard-table  taking  up  the  centre. 
Madame,  from  behind  her  counter  and  its  row  of 
many-coloured  bottles,  looked  at  him  with  as  much 
satisfaction  as  it  was  possible  to  get  into  her  austere 
face  in  its  framing  of  snowy  cap-frills.  Madame 
had  decided  in  her  own  mind  that  the  English 
monsieur  was  "  tres  comme  il  faut ". 

It  was  a  way  Eichard  Langrishe  had  with  him 
to  propitiate  old  women  and  little  children  and 
animals.  He  looked  up  with  a  smile  presently 
when  the  little  old  woman  approached  him  with 
his  coffee  and  an  intention  of  conversation.  It  was 
the  day  of  the  fete.  Monsieur  perhaps  would  wish 
to  see  the  procession. 

Yes,  he  would  like  to  see  the  procession.  He 
was  newly  from  Brittany  where  he  had  seen  many 
pardons,  many  processions.  But  he  was'a  smiling, 
easy-going,  good-tempered  fellow.  He  did  not 
suppose  the  procession  was  going  to  be  anything 

115 


T'Mp 

:  UNIVERSITY 

OF 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

but  a  very  small  affair  in  this  starved  little  fishing- 
village.  Still,  he  was  quite  willing  to  be  interested 
in  it.  And  the  fragrance  of  the  coffee  was  delicious. 
His  blue  eyes  beamed  on  Madame  Hefort.  It 
was  a  way  he  had  with  him,  a  way  which  had  won 
him  the  hearts  of  all  the  old  women  and  a  good 
many  young  ones  at  home  in  Ballyinglen.  To  the 
people  in  Ballyinglen  there  was  no  one  like  Master 
Dick,  the  nephew  and  heir  of  Sir  Jasper  Langrishe. 

Presently  the  procession  came  round  the  cor- 
ner, down  the  street.  He  looked  at  it  with  interest  : 
it  was  not  his  way  to  be  languid ;  he  was  sensi- 
ble of  the  artistic  values  of  the  old  priest  and  his 
acolytes  in  their  white  and  scarlet,  of  the  brass 
crucifix  that  caught  the  hot  sunshine,  of  the  girls' 
faces  under  their  veils,  the  white  and  silver  of  the 
little  child-angels. 

Behind  the  official  part  of  the  procession  there 
came  people  in  ordinary  attire,  saying  the  Eosary, 
with  the  clasped  beads  in  their  fingers  and  devout, 
bent  heads. 

In  the  front  row  there  were  three  who  attracted 
Langrishe's  attention.  They  were  in  black,  and 
their  long  veils  were  flung  back  from  their  faces. 
A  young  girl  walked  between  an  old  woman  and 
an  elderly  woman.  Her  face  was  lifted  to  the 
skies  while  theirs  were  down-bent.  She  was  so 

116 


A  LETTEE  OF  INTKODUCTION 

slender,  so  fragile,  so  soft,  that  an  odd  fancy  came 
into  his  head  about  the  bird  that  had  beaten  its 
wings  against  the  church  windows.  There  was 
something  about  the  girl  that  reminded  him  of  the 
bird. 

The  full  light  fell  on  her  face  with  its  impas- 
sioned supplication.  It  was  a  small  face,  fair  with 
a  golden  fairness.  Through  the  transparent  veil  he 
could  see  the  golden  hair  caught  into  a  childish 
plait  at  the  back  of  the  head.  She  had  long  eyes, 
heavy-lashed,  and  of  a  beautiful  brown  colour. 
The  shape  of  the  eyes  gave  her  face  a  look  of 
slumbering  passion.  The  features  were  small  and 
fine.  The  golden  skin  had  a  downy  look  like  the 
skin  of  a  young  child. 

Her  two  little  sunburnt  hands  held  her  rosary- 
beads  tightly  clasped.  She  was  dressed  in  some 
thin  black  stuff  through  which  one  guessed  at  her 
slenderness. 

The  women  between  whom  she  walked  were  as 
unlike  this  golden  child  as  possible.  They  were 
dark  and  heavy-featured  and  their  faces,  despite  the 
religious  feeling  of  the  hour,  kept  a  look  proud  and 
unhappy.  The  old  lady  indeed  had  begun  to  yellow 
through  her  darkness  with  the  yellow  of  old  ivory. 
She  bent  forward  a  little  and  leant  on  a  stick.  She 
had  a  perceptible  moustache.  The  younger  woman, 

117 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

evidently  her  daughter,  was  what  she  had  been 
thirty  years  earlier :  in  the  elder  woman  you  saw 
what  the  younger  would  be  in  thirty  years  to  come. 

Langrishe  stared  at  them  till  they  were  out  of 
sight.  Then  he  turned  to  the  little  old  woman  at 
the  adjoining  window. 

"Those  ladies  there,  following  the  procession, 
who  are  they?"  he  asked,  and  waited  for  the 
answer  with  an  eagerness  that  surprised  himself. 

"  Madame  la  Comtesse  from  the  chateau,  Mdlle. 
Marie,  Mdlle.  Suzanne." 

"Ah,  Mdlle.  Suzanne  de  Lorme?  " 

"  Yes,  Monsieur  was  right.  It  was  Mdlle.  Su- 
zanne de  Lorme,  the  grandchild  of  the  Comtesse. 
Mdlle.  Marie  was  Madame's  daughter.  They  were 
a  great  family,  the  De  Lormes,  although  poor  in 
these  latter  days.  It  was  but  lately  they  had  buried 
poor  M.  Jacques,  the  brother  of  Mdlle.  Suzanne  who 
now,  alas,  was  the  last  of  the  De  Lormes." 

Again  a  vague  memory  of  the  name  stirred  in 
him.  Where  had  he  heard  of  it  before  and  in  what 
connection  ? 

"  Monsieur  would  doubtless  have  seen  the 
chateau?  He  had  passed  the  entrance-gates  as 
he  came  into  the  village.  It  stood  in  a  little 
wood." 

Yes,  he  remembered.     The  wood  was  a  small 

118 


A  LETTEK  OF  INTEODUCTION 

sparse  wood,  beaten  all  one  way  by  the  sea- wind. 
There  was  a  rusted  iron  gate.  He  had  given  a 
passing  admiration  to  its  scrolls  'ind  finials,  its 
initials  interlaced,  its  crest  and  motto.  But  the 
thing  mouldered,  as  plainly  the  house  beyond 
mouldered.  He  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  house- 
front  that  ought  to  be  white.  The  tears  of  the 
years  had  streaked  it  with  unwholesome  green. 
One  of  the  green  shutters  hung  loose  on  its  hinges 
and  creaked  with  a  melancholy  sound.  The  place 
had  daunted  him  as  he  passed  by.  It  had  a  church- 
yard air.  Who  would  live  retired  in  that  close 
little  wood  when  all  outside  it  the  pure  strong  wind 
revelled  and  blew  ? 

"  Madame  la  Comtesse  de  Lorme — Madame  de 
Lorme" — What  was  the  association  in  his  mind? 

Suddenly  it  flashed  upon  him.  Why  he  had  a 
letter  of  introduction  to  the  lady.  She  was  one  of 
Aunt  Kate's  friends.  Aunt  Kate  had  loaded  him 
with  introductions  when  he  set  out  on  his  leisurely 
walking  tour  through  the  north  of  France.  He 
had  not  had  the  strength  of  mind  to  refuse  them. 
He  carried  thirty  letters  of  introduction,  if  he 
carried  one,  to  the  fine  ladies  whom  Aunt  Kate 
had  known  when  Eugenie  ruled  the  Tuileries  with 
the  spell  of  an  enchanting  beauty  and  grace. 

He  had  not  been  able  to  resist  Aunt  Kate  and 

119 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

refuse  the  introductions,  although  he  had  had  a 
passing  thought  that  a  good  many  of  the  fine 
ladies  might  be  dead  and  gone  by  this  time.  Aunt 
Kate — she  was  really  Richard  Langrishe's  great- 
aunt — was  a  little,  flighty,  pretty  old  lady  who 
had  had  a  most  brilliant  past,  and  who  was  yet 
dearly  loved  by  a  large  circle  of  friends  and  rela- 
tives of  whom  her  grand-nephew  was  among  the 
most  devoted.  No  one  could  ever  have  suggested 
to  Aunt  Kate  the  possibility  that  many  of  her  con- 
temporaries had  ceased  from  their  charming  on  this 
planet.  And  her  nephew  had  taken  the  letters  of 
introduction  with  apparent  gratitude,  apprehend- 
ing all  the  same  her  stormy  indignation  when  he 
should  return  to  her  without  news  of  her  old 
friends. 

Madame  Hefort's  voice  broke  in  upon  his 
thoughts. 

"  Mdlle.  Suzanne  is  to  be  affianced  to  M.  le  Comte 
d'Herault.  M.  le  Comte  is  a  brave  gentleman, 
handsome  and  stately ;  not  so  young  perhaps 
as  might  be  desirable.  In  fact  it  was  some  years 
since  he  had  lost  Madame  la  Comtesse,  and  he 
was  already  a  grandfather.  Still,  what  would  you 
have?  The  De  Lorme's  were  so  poor.  There 
would  be  nothing  else  for  Mdlle.  Suzanne,  except 
the  veil." 

12Q 


A  LETTEE  OF  INTKODUCTION 

Ah !  So  that  was  why  the  poor  little  thing  had 
suggested  to  him  the  captive  bird  that  had  beaten 
its  wings  against  the  pane.  He  understood  bet- 
ter now  the  supplication  of  the  gaze  lifted  to 
Heaven.  He  knew  now  that  it  prayed  for  deliver- 
ance. Poor  child,  poor  little  thing !  There  would 
not  be  much  mercy  for  her,  he  said  to  himself 
hotly,  remembering  the  Comtesse's  gloomy  face. 
He  had  ever  been  something  of  a  Quixote  and 
hot-headed  like  his  country  people. 

Madame  Hefort  wondered  why  the  sunny  face 
had  suddenly  become  grim.  He  turned  to  her  and 
there  was  something  that  sparkled  and  smouldered 
in  the  shadow  of  his  eyes.  He  thought  of  staying 
a  little  while  in  Ravigot.  Could  Madame  tell  him 
where  he  might  procure  a  bedroom  ? 

Madame  could.  She  herself  had  a  bedroom  in 
which  Monsieur  could  be  comfortable.  It  was 
good,  Monsieur  said,  his  face  clearing. 

He  followed  Madame  up  a  little  steep  flight  of 
stairs.  The  room  was  excellently  clean  under  its 
low  ceiling.  It  looked  on  a  red-roofed  stable. 
There  was  a  side  view  over  a  garden  of  holly- 
hocks to  the  sea  and  the  sand-hills.  As  he  opened 
the  little  window  the  strong  pure  breath  of  the  sea 
came  into  the  room. 

He  had  only  a  hand-bag  to  unpack.  He  carried 
121 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

little  more  than  a  change  of  linen.  In  an  inner 
wallet  of  the  bag  he  discovered  Aunt  Kate's  letters 
of  introduction,  and  selected  the  one  he  needed. 
He  looked  down  ruefully  at  his  homespuns  that 
carried  the  traces  of  wind  and  weather.  He 
wished  now  that  he  had  arranged  for  some  more 
ceremonious  garments  to  follow  him.  But  it  was 
no  use  regretting  now.  He  was  on  fire, — why, 
what  was  the  matter  with  him  ? — to  come  face  to 
face  with  Mdlle.  Suzanne  and  her  captors,  as  he 
called  the  stern  old  grandmother,  the  forbidding- 
looking  aunt,  in  his  own  mind. 

He  brushed  the  dust  from  his  garments  and 
from  his  shoes  carefully.  He  had  an  idea  that  his 
unceremonious  appearance  might  not  commend 
him  to  Madame  la  Comtesse.  Still  it  couldn't  be 
helped.  Perhaps  after  all  a  very  proud  person 
would  be  less  particular  about  such  matters  than 
those  less  sure  of  their  position. 

As  he  walked  up  the  street  Madame  Hefort's 
eyes  watched  him  from  the  door  with  approval. 
A  couple  of  cowed-looking  dogs  came  to  him  for  a 
caress.  The  flaxen-haired  children  looked  up  at 
him  with  a  "  Bon  jour,  Monsieur,"  and  he  answered 
"  Bon  jour,  Mesdemoiselles,"  lifting  his  hat  as  he 
passed  on. 

He  was  but  half-way  up  the  village  street  when 
122 


A  LETTEE  OF  INTRODUCTION 

a  shabby  little  old  carriage  with  a  leather  hood, 
drawn  by  a  lean  grey  horse,  turned  out  of  the 
gates  of  the  chateau.  For  a  moment  his  heart 
sank  with  a  sense  of  disappointment.  Then  up- 
lifted again  as  he  recognised  Madame  de  Lorme 
and  Mdlle.  Marie  as  the  occupants.  Was  it  possible 
that  by  an  unheard-of  chance  he  might  see  Mdlle. 
Suzanne  alone  ? 

He  knew  by  what  barriers  French  girls  of  rank 
are  protected.  Probably  he  would  be  refused  ad- 
mission to  Mdlle.  Suzanne's  presence  in  the  Com- 
tesse's  absence.  Still — some  lucky  accident  might 
befriend  him. 

He  turned  in  at  the  open  gates  of  the  chateau. 
The  grounds  were  of  no  great  extent,  but  the 
carriage  drive  wound  in  and  out  the  little  wood 
with  an  ingenious  deceptiveness.  As  he  followed 
it  he  saw  down  a  side-path  the  slender  figure  of 
the  girl  he  sought.  She  was  apparently  sitting  on 
a  rustic  seat.  Her  chin  rested  on  her  hand.  Her 
attitude  was  one  of  the  utmost  dejection. 

"  Mdlle.  Suzanne,"  he  said,  coming  up  to  her. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  terrified  air.  "  Mon- 
sieur," she  began.  There  were  traces  of  tears  on 
her  cheeks :  her  bosom  was  yet  heaving  with 
agitation.  This  coming  face  to  face  alone  with 
a  strange  young  man  was  a  new  experience  for 

123 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

her,  a  terrifying  one  she  would  have  felt  it  if  some- 
how Dick's  kind,  young  brown  eyes  had  not  ex- 
pressed the  most  tender  pity  and  sympathy  for  her. 

He  explained  in  fluent  French — it  was  some- 
thing he  had  acquired  early  from  Aunt  Kate,  who 
loved  the  polite  language ;  it  was  one  of  her  little 
affectations  to  talk  in  French  half  the  time — the 
reason  of  his  appearance,  extending  to  her  at 
the  same  time  the  letter  of  introduction.  He 
noticed  for  the  first  time  that  it  was  sealed,  with  a 
little  wonder.  Aunt  Kate  was  always  so  particular 
about  doing  the  right  thing.  He  wondered  what 
it  contained.  Old  memories,  old  secrets,  absurd 
loving  praises  of  himself.  Aunt  Kate,  who  had 
done  very  comfortably  without  Madame  de  Lorme 
and  her  other  fine  friends  for  thirty  years  or  so, 
had  been  moved  to  tears  by  her  memories  of  them 
when  she  recalled  their  names  as  those  of  people 
who  might  be  useful  to  Dick. 

Mdlle.  Suzanne  took  the  letter  and  looked  down 
at  it  shyly,  a  little  colour  coming  and  going  in  her 
cheek.  Madame  de  Lorme  would  return  about 
five  o'clock.  After  that  hour  she  would  welcome 
Monsieur. 

He  left  her  most  unwillingly.  There  were  two 
mortal  hours  to  be  got  through  before  five  o'clock. 
What  on  earth  was  he  to  do  with  them  ?  Howevar, 

124 


A  LETTEK  OF  INTKODUCTTON 

plainly  he  could  not  ask  to  stay  as  he  might  have 
done  with  an  English  girl.  He  went  away  with 
a  tender  compassion  aching  in  his  breast  for 
Mdlle.  Suzanne.  If  he  could  only  have  taken 
the  poor  little  thing  in  his  arms  and  comforted 
her! 

He  strolled  about  the  village,  making  acquaint- 
ances as  he  went.  He  turned  into  the  little  grave- 
yard on  the  cliff,  and  wondered  over  its  bead 
wreaths  and  garish  ornaments.  The  humbler 
graves  were  dominated  by  the  great  stone  crosses 
and  monuments  of  the  De  Lormes.  Over  all  the 
Calvary  by  the  gate  spread  its  protecting  arms  to 
gather  all  the  graves,  "as  a  hen  gathereth  her 
chickens  ". 

He  had  no  intention  of  intruding  again  on  Mdlle. 
Suzanne.  In  fact,  he  was  rather  overwhelmed 
when  he  came  upon  her  standing  by  a  new  grave. 
It  was  covered  with  artificial  wreaths,  but  in  the 
midst  of  them  lay  a  cross  of  sea-holly  which  had 
apparently  just  been  laid  there. 

He  felt  that  he  ought  to  go,  but  he  stayed. 
When  he  said  a  word  of  sympathy  her  tears  began 
to  flow,  and  having  no  words  he  touched  softly  a 
fold  of  her  dress. 

"It  was  my  brother,  Monsieur,"  the  girl  said, 
turning  to  him  as  though  she  were  hungry  for 

125 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

sympathy.  "  When  he  died  I  thought  the  worst 
had  befallen  me — alas  !  " 

The  young  fellow  muttered  his  inarticulate 
sympathy.  They  stood  there  looking  into  each 
other's  eyes,  while  the  intimacy  between  them 
grew  with  every  second  that  passed.  They  were 
quite  away  from  human  eyes,  alone  amid  the  sand- 
dunes  and  the  corn-fields. 

"  If  but  he  had  taken  me  with  him  !  "  she  said, 
with  a  tragical  hardening  of  her  little  soft  face. 
"Indeed  there  are  worse  things  than  death, 
Monsieur." 

Then  the  colour  flooded  her  cheeks.  "  I  do  not 
ask  so  much  of  life,"  she  said.  "  Only  that  I  might 
be  at  peace  in  the  Convent  of  the  Carmelites  at 
Arras.  But  that  will  not  be  granted  me." 

"  The  convent ! "  he  repeated  in  a  horror-stricken 
way.  "  The  Carmelites  !  That  living  death  !  In- 
deed it  is  not  for  you,  not  for  such  as  you  who  are 
made  for  love  and  life  and  happiness." 

When  he  was  shown  into  the  salon  of  the  Chateau 
de  Lorme  he  found  Madame  seated  in  a  high- 
backed  chair,  her  daughter  by  her  side,  her  grand- 
daughter on  a  low  tabouret,  waiting  to  receive  him. 
In  her  hand  she  held  the  letter  of  introduction. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  came  through  a  great 
space  of  bare  austere  room,  past  many  screens 

126 


A  LETTEE  OF  INTRODUCTION 

and  embroidered  chairs,  in  and  out  of  little  tables, 
that  he  saw  himself  in  many  mirrors,  before  he 
reached  the  stately  little  group  of  ladies.  He  felt 
Madame's  eyes  upon  him.  Was  she  staring  in 
haughty  amazement  at  his  unconventional  garb  ? 
If  she"  could  only  know  what  thoughts  were  in  his 
mind ;  if  she  could  but  guess  at  that  interview  in 
the  churchyard,  where  his  youth  and  tender  pity 
and  Mademoiselle's  youth  and  need  had  been  fire 
and  tow  to  each  other  !  What  matter !  He  was 
going  to  rescue  Mdlle.  Suzanne  if  he  carried  her 
off  by  force.  He  felt  like  Perseus,  like  St.  George, 
like  any  knight  who  has,  had  to  slay  dragons  for 
his  lady. 

If  but  he  had  known  he  had  never  looked  better 
than  at  this  moment  when  his  eyes  and  his  uplifted 
head  were  a  declaration  of  battle.  His  little  love 
was  sitting  with  her  eyes  down — perhaps  she  did 
not  dare  lift  them,  lest  their  secret  should  be  read — 
her  attitude  as  submissive  as  that  of  a  child.  Mdlle. 
Marie !  Why,  it  was  a  kind  face  if  a  plain  one,  and 
it  was  looking  kindness  at  him.  And  Madame ! 
Madame's  voice  was  like  silver  rain  as  she  welcomed 
him.  Looking  at  her  for  the  first  time  he  saw  that 
she  had  bright  piercing  eyes  beneath  the  heavy  lids. 
She  was  smiling.  And  somehow  the  ugliness  and 
the  gloom  had  fled  away. 

127 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

What  a  stupid  fellow  he  had  been  to  have 
thought  Madame  ugly  !  She  was  putting  out  the 
power  to  charm  which  is  the  happy  gift  of  French 
women  of  all  degrees.  When  Madame  de  Lorme 
chose  to  please  none  remembered  that  she  was 
heavy-featured,  yellow,  old.  Langrishe  was  im- 
patient with  himself  that  he  had  thought  her  for- 
bidding. Yet, — he  knew  something  of  the  prickly 
hedge  which  is  formed  about  a  French  girl.  If 
Madame  could  but  know  he  had  broken  through 
it !  And  after  all  there  was  the  marriage  between 
the  old  man,  the  grandfather,  which  Madame  had 
arranged,  and  which  the  poor  child  had  protested 
against  in  vain,  imploring  rather  the  protection  of 
the  veil  of  the  Carmelites. 

After  that  the  days  passed  in  Eavigot  village, 
sleepily,  sunnily,  happily,  for  Dick  Langrishe. 
He  broke  through  no  more  hedges.  He  saw  Mdlle. 
Suzanne  only  in  the  presence  of  Madame  and  Mdlle. 
Marie.  He  was  eager  to  win  Suzanne  if  he  might 
according  to  their  ways,  if  they  would  but  let  him. 

"  The  betrothal  is  spoken  of  no  longer,"  she 
conveyed  to  him  ia  a  whisper.  "  I  do  not  under- 
stand it.  The  name  of  M.  le  Comte  d'Herault  is 
no  longer  spoken  by  the  Comtesse.  What  does 
it  mean,  my  friend  ?  " 

He  knew  no  more  than  she.     He   only  knew 

128 


A  LETTBK  OF  INTRODUCTION 

that  he  came  and  went,  as  he  would,  at  the  chateau, 
that  he  was  treated  with  an  almost  motherly 
kindness  by  Madame,  that  Mdlle.  Marie  smiled  at 
him,  with  a  vague  sympathy  and  encouragement 
in  her  eyes. 

No  more  did  he  think  of  the  chateau  as  gloomy, 
like  a  grave.  It  was  poor  certainly,  everything  was 
poor ;  they  ate  and  drank  sparingly ;  everything  was 
worn  and  faded.  But  there  was  such  a  suggestion 
of  purity  and  peace ;  it  was  so  spotless ;  the  furni- 
ture so  beautiful  if  it  was  old,  the  things  for  use  so 
fine  and  delicate  if  worn  thin.  This  was  such 
poverty  as  St.  Francis  dreamt  of — my  Lady  Poverty, 
beautiful  and  delicate  and  austere. 

He  was  treated  like  a  son  of  the  house.  Madame 
consulted  him  about  many  things.  The  days  of 
his  visit  extended  themselves  to  weeks.  It  was 
early  August  when  he  came  to  Bavigot.  It  was 
late  golden  September  when  at  last  he  spoke. 
And  Mdlle.  Suzanne  was  become  a  golden  rose. 
There  was  a  little  significance  in  the  air,  in  the 
way  people  looked  at  him.  He  read  in  the  eyes  of 
M.  le  Cure,  of  Madame  Hefortfof  all  his  friends  of 
the  village,  what  they  knew  was  coming :  the 
smiles  were  full  of  a  roguish  congratulation. 

Madame  made  a  fine  stately  little  speech.  She 
had  known  that  Monsieur  desired  the  hand 

9  129 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

of  Mdlle.  Suzanne  since  she  had  received  the  letter 
of  her  dear  friend,  Mdlle.  Kate.  Monsieur's  family 
was  ancient,  of  great  consideration,  like  the  De 
Lormes,  and  Monsieur  himself  had  won  her  affec- 
tion and  esteem.  She  had  the  pleasure  to  consent 
to  the  marriage. 

There  was  a  word  of  Mdlle.  Suzanne's  dot  which 
was  not  a  large  one.  Langrishe  desired  no  dot 
with  his  beloved.  Why,  Mdlle.  Suzanne  was  the 
treasure  of  all  the  world.  In  England,  in  Ireland, 
the  dot  was  not  necessary,  certainly  in  his  own 
case  not  desired — unwelcome.  He  waved  away 
the  question  of  the  dot  loftily. 

And  so  Aunt  Kate  had  helped  to  bring  the 
marriage  about  after  all.  She  had  anticipated  his 
desires.  He  smiled  radiantly  as  he  thought  of 
Aunt  Kate.  People  called  the  little  old  spinster 
crazy.  Well,  this  special  bit  of  craziness  was  the 
very  height  of  wisdom. 

It  was  long  afterwards  that  he  saw  Aunt  Kate's 
letter  in  which  she  commended  him  to  Madame. 
"  It  would  be  the  wish  of  my  heart,  dear  friend," 
she  had  written,  "  and  it  will  be  his,  that  there 
should  be    a   marriage    between   him  and    your 
daughter,  the  delightful  Georgette.     Our  family  as 
you  know  is  of  distinction  :   my  nephew  will  in- 
herit the  title  and  estates.     He  is  excellent  in 
130 


A  LETTEK  OF  INTEODUCTION 

every  way,  and  charming,  although  he  would  not 
thank  me  for  saying  it.  And  an  alliance  between 
our  two  houses  would  be  to  me  and  to  Sir  Jasper, 
the  boy's  uncle,  a  source  of  the  greatest  gratifica- 
tion. I  look  with  effusion  to  embrace  the  sweet 
Georgette." 

"I  have  never  had  a  Georgette,"  Madame  ex- 
plained placidly,  turning  the  letter  about,  "  and, 
to  be  sure,  Mdlle.  Kate  forgets  how  the  years  have 
gone  by,  so  that  you  must  marry  my  grand- 
daughter and  not  my  daughter." 

"  Seeing  that  she  is  always  young  herself,"  Lan- 
grishe  answered,  with  a  throb  of  gratitude  in  his 
heart  for  her  who  had  so  smoothed  his  path. 

As  for  M.  le  Comte  d'Herault  he  passes  quite 
out  of  the  story.  Some  few  months  later  he 
married  an  American,  which  fact  might  or  might 
not  shed  some  light  on  his  withdrawal  from  the 
affair.  Only  once  Madame  referred  to  him  and 
that  was  in  terms  of  icy  contempt.  As  for  Mdlle. 
Suzanne,  become  Mrs.  Langrishe  and  the  most 
charming  of  matrons,  she  came  and  went  between 
Ravigot  and  Ballinglen  Hall  with  so  happy  and 
blooming  an  air  that  none  could  have  believed  she 
was  ever  so  sad.  She  was  the  apple  of  their  eye  to 
so  many  people,  and  not  to  be  dispossessed  with 
them  even  when  an  heir  presumptive  came  to 

131 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

make  a  new  world  for  half  a  dozen  old  people  as 
well  as  his  parents. 

One  thing  Dick  Langrishe  often  wondered  about 
was  whether  in  those  other  letters  of  introduction 
Aunt  Kate  had  suggested  alliances  for  him  with 
the  children  of  her  other  friends.  He  thought  it 
extremely  probable.  However,  since  the  letters 
had  been  destroyed,  he  had  no  chance  of  finding 
out;  but  he  often  congratulated  himself  on  the 
happy  fortune  that  brought  him  to  Eavigot  carry- 
ing that  letter  of  introduction. 


132 


A  TELEPHONE  MESSAGE. 

AN  amazing  thing  had  happened  to  Amy  Foster. 
Some  one  was  ringing  her  up  on  the  telephone.  A 
breathless  small  boy  had  brought  her  word  from 
the  post-office,  which  was  apt  to  curl  itself  up  like 
the  dormouse  and  go  asleep  once  winter  had  de- 
scended on  Berenz.  Indeed  it  was  only  during 
the  short  summer  season  that  the  post-office  was  at 
all  awake ;  and  even  then  there  were  hours  during 
which  the  exacting  visitors  from  the  outer  world 
knocked  in  vain,  since  Madame  Jollet  and  her  cat 
had  retired  for  the  afternoon  siesta. 

In  a  state  of  quiet  wonder  Mrs.  Foster  followed 
the  bare-legged  urchin  up  the  street.  Who  could 
be  ringing  her  up  on  the  telephone  ?  She  had  cut 
herself  off  so  utterly  from  her  old  life,  she  had 
snapped  the  few  and  slender  ties  that  held  her  to 
England  so  entirely.  Who  could  want  her  now  ? 
She  had  been  strong  to  resist  friendships  even 
when  they  were  pressed  eagerly  upon  her.  She 
had  fled  here  in  such  utter  sickness  of  heart,  such 

133 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

disillusionment  with  life,  and  had  found  at  least 
such  a  quietness  that  she  had  no  mind  to  go  back. 

Time  after  time  it  had  happened  to  her  that  she 
was  called  upon  to  render  some  service  or  other 
to  the  few  English-speaking  people  who  found 
themselves  in  Berenz.  Once  she  had  nursed  a 
sick  child  back  to  health.  The  nearest  doctor  to 
Berenz  was  fourteen  miles  away.  In  Berenz  if 
folk  became  ill  they  recovered  of  themselves  or  they 
died. 

Because  she  knew  the  place  so  thoroughly  and 
its  resources,  such  as  they  were,  she  had  often  been 
called  into  counsel  when  the  strange  needs  of  the 
foreign  visitors  required  satisfaction.  A  good  many 
of  those  she  had  so  helped  would  fain  have  pursued 
the  acquaintance.  A  good  many  people  had  been 
interested  in  the  young  English  widow  with  the 
clear  grey  eyes  and  warm  colour  and  masses  of 
red-fair  hair.  What  had  brought  her  into  such  a 
solitude?  Why  did  she  shun  her  own  kind? 
What  suffering  was  it  that  had  set  those  lines  about 
her  mouth,  and  given  her  that  tragical  look  when 
she  thought  she  was  unobserved,  which  was  yet  so 
ready  to  become  all  softness  for  her  thousand  and 
one  friends  among  the  villagers  or  the  animals  ? 

Mrs.  Foster  had  shown  no  inclination  to  en- 
lighten any  one  on  these  points.  Her  service  ren- 

134 


A  TELEPHONE  MESSAGE 

dered,  she  had  retired  behind  tho  iron  lattice- work 
of  her  little  hall-door.  She  had  a  cottage  in  the 
steep  street  of  the  village  into  which  she  never  in- 
vited the  summer  visitors,  no  matter  how  insistent 
they  were.  While  the  visitors  remained  she  worked 
a  deal  in  her  garden  among  her  fruits  and  vege- 
tables, going  as  little  outside  her  door  as  might  be. 
She  was  often  to  be  seen  in  the  church,  with  her 
long  black  veil  sweeping  over  the  prie-dieu  in  front 
of  her.  When  she  wore  her  veil  down  the  most 
persistent  were  kept  at  a  distance. 

It  was  an  easy  explanation  that  she  had  had  a 
great  sorrow  in  her  widowhood ;  but  somebody 
who  was  not  satisfied  with  easy  explanations,  a 
brilliant  man  of  letters,  of  whom  his  admirers  said 
that  he  had  the  heart  of  a  woman  as  well  as  the 
heart  of  a  man,  having  caught  sight  of  Mrs.  Foster 
one  day  when  she  had  cast  back  her  veil,  suggested 
that  she  had  suffered  a  great  wrong  rather  than  a 
great  sorrow. 

"  It  is  not  the  face  of  a  woman  who  has  seen  her 
one  ship  go  down,"  he  said.  "  She  has  not  used 
up  life  although  she  thinks  she  has.  She  has  been 
crushed,  but  not  broken.  Perhaps  Berenz  is  as 
good  a  place  as  any  in  the  wide  world  to  recover 
from  such  experiences  as  she  must  have  had." 

She  was  standing  before  the  sounding-board  in 
135 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

the  little  post-office  with  the  two  trumpets  of  the 
telephone  to  her  pretty  ears.  Madame  Jollet,  stand- 
ing by,  for  once  had  suspended  her  eternal  knitting, 
so  lively  was  her  curiosity.  There  was  a  little 
crowd  in  the  doorway.  The  news  had  spread  about 
the  telephone  message  for  the  English  Madame. 
Such  little  excitement  did  not  often  come  the  way 
of  the  village. 

"  Quiparle  ?  "  called  the  voice  at  the  other  end 
of  the  telephone. 

"  Mrs.  Foster.    Who  are  you  ?  " 

"  An  English  gentleman  is  taken  ill  at  the  Lion 
of  Flanders  in  the  market-square  of  Courcelles. 
He  asks  for  you.  I  am  his  physician." 

A  sudden  colour  leaped  to  Amy  Foster's  cheek. 
What  was  this  that  was  being  forced  upon  her  ? 
Who  could  there  be  in  all  the  world  who  in  his 
extremity  would  have  thought  of  her  ?  Perhaps, 
— her  mind  ran  over  the  list  of  visitors  to  whom 
she  had  rendered  slight  services  during  the  half- 
dozen  years  of  her  rest  in  Berenz.  Some  one  had 
remembered  and  in  need  had  sent  for  her. 

Why  the  need  was  enough.  The  villagers  to 
whom  she  had  always  been  ready  to  go  in  illness 
knew  that  well.  The  elucidation  of  other  matters 
could  wait. 

"  His  name  ?  "  she  asked  again  at  the  telephone. 
136 


A  TELEPHONE  MESSAGE 

"  M.  Jacques  Silvestre." 

James  Sylvester.  There  was  no  such  name  in 
her  memory.  But  still  ...  if  she  had  hesitated 
at  all  before  she  was  certain  now.  The  sick  stranger 
had  the  name  of  her  child,  her  baby,  her  little  Jim, 
the  one  thing  she  had  saved  out  of  the  shipwreck 
of  her  married  life,  and  saved  only  to  lose. 

"  Tell  him  I  will  come,"  she  said ;  and  having 
listened  a  moment  for  a  further  message,  none 
coming,  she  left  the  post-office. 

It  was  a  good  fourteen  miles  over  the  hilly  inland 
country  to  Courcelles.  She  found  the  baker  in  the 
midst  of  a  batch  of  bread,  but  smiling  over  his 
shoulder  at  Madame  while  he  assured  her  that  the 
voiture  should  be  got  ready  immediately.  She 
returned  to  her  own  little  house  then,  and  began 
to  make  preparations  as  though  for  an  absence. 
It  might  be  necessary  that  she  should  stay  at 
Courcelles. 

When  she  arrived  at  the  Lion  of  Flanders  she 
followed  the  waiting  maid  down  the  long  flagged 
passages  to  the  room  where  the  sick  man  lay. 

There  was  a  hush  about  the  little  hotel  where 
it  lay  basking  in  the  sunshine  of  late  autumn. 
Germaine,  with  her  finger  on  her  lips,  whispered  to 
Madame  that  the  English  gentleman  was  very  bad. 
Dr.  Lefevre  was  to  return  in  a  little  while. 

137 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

Mrs.  Foster  followed  her  into  the  darkened  room 
and  stood  at  the  bed-foot.  She  tried  to  make  out 
the  stranger's  features,  but  could  not  for  the  gloom. 
The  room  smelt  stuffily. 

She  went  to  the  window  and  pulled  the  curtains 
aside.  After  a  struggle  with  the  refractory  bolt 
she  opened  the  window  and  a  clear  shaft  of  air  and 
sunlight  came  in.  Then  she  removed  her  bonnet 
and  going  to  the  bed-side  she  looked  down  at  the 
man  who  had  sent  for  her. 

He  was  a  stranger,  an  absolute  stranger.  She 
was  quite  certain  that  she  had  never  seen  that 
lean  resolute  face  before.  Perhaps  resolute  was 
hardly  the  word  for  it  now  that  heavy  illness  had 
relaxed  it.  There  was  a  dark  stain  on  the  cheeks  ; 
the  head  tossed  restlessly  from  side  to  side  on  the 
pillow.  As  she  stood  looking  down,  the  eyes 
opened  and  looked  at  her  without  seeing  her. 
Beyond  the  blur  and  the  dimness,  the  eyes  were 
brown,  brown  with  yellowish  whites  to  them. 
Her  little  Jim  had  had  the  eyes  of  a  gipsy. 

The  door  opened  and  Dr.  Lefevre  came  in.  He 
glanced  at  the  open  window ;  then  at  Mrs.  Foster. 

"  You  are  the  poor  gentleman's  friend  ?  "  he  said, 
taking  off  his  hat. 

She  inclined  her  head  gently.  Already  she  was 
removing  the  long  widow's  cloak  and  folding  it 

138 


A  TELEPHONE  MESSAGE 

preparatory  to  putting  it  away.  I  aderneath  it  she 
had  a  dress  with  short  skirts,  of  fresh  pink  cambric. 
While  Dr.  Lefevre  talked  she  opened  her  bag, 
found  a  large  holland  apron  and  put  it  on. 

"  You  are  going  to  nurse  him  ?  "  the  doctor  said, 
nodding  his  head  approvingly.  "  You  have  then 
some  experience  in  nursing?" 

"Much,"  she  replied.  She  was  already  collect- 
ing cups  and  glasses  and  empty  medicine  bottles, 
the  debris  of  a  sick-room,  and  placing  them  on  a 
tray.  Her  movements  were  soft  and  swift  and 
gentle.  No  one  would  have  imagined  from  the 
calm  of  her  face  that  she  had  just  been  called  upon 
to  nurse  an  absolute  stranger. 

"  A  good  nurse,  it  is  half  the  battle.  But  he  is 
very  ill,"  the  doctor  said. 

He  was  devoutly  thankful  that  this  relative  of 
his  patient's,  as  he  took  her  to  be,  had  not  arrived, 
as.he  had  more  than  half-feared,  weeping  and  wring- 
ing her  hands.  He  rubbed  his  hands  together 
softly  as  she  listened  to  his  instructions  and  obeyed 
them.  It  was  very  good  :  it  was  excellent. 

The  doctor  was  not  quite  sure  about  the  open 
window,  but  then  the  English  would  have  it  so ; 
they  were  accustomed  to  it ;  it  would  not  be  fatal 
to  them  as  it  would  be  to  a  French  person.  He 
said  something  about  keeping  the  patient  out 

139 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

of  the  courant  d'air ;  and  Mrs.  Foster  smiled  her 
assent.  As  the  patient's  bed  was  in  a  curtained 
alcove  it  was  not  easy  to  see  how  he  could  get  into 
the  courant  d'air. 

The  next  time  the  doctor  came  he  found  the 
room  transformed.  The  curtains  and  the  curtain 
rod  were  gone.  So  were  the  heavy  curtains  from 
the  windows  which  were  all  open.  The  room  had 
been  thoroughly  scrubbed.  There  was  a  little  fire 
in  the  grate.  By  the  window  Mrs.  Foster  sat 
sewing.  She  was  of  the  women  who  find  com- 
fort and  refreshment  in  a  long  seam.  The  quiet- 
ness of  the  room  was  something  that  could  be  felt. 

The  bed  no  longer  stood  within  the  alcove.  It 
had  been  turned  round  with  its  foot  towards  the 
room;  a  clear  passage  round  it  was  open  now. 
The  dusty  alcove  had  had  its  share  of  cleaning. 
It  had  lost  its  musty  smell.  A  screen  at  the  bed- 
foot  kept  the  light  from  the  patient's  eyes. 

In  that  room  at  the  Lion  of  Flanders  the  days 
slipped  by  in  an  amazing  quietude.  In  the  doctor's 
opinion  never  was  there  such  a  nurse.  He  had 
a  wide  and  vexatious  experience  of  many  kinds  of 
nurses.  Never  had  he  had  one  so  silent,  so  deft, 
so  reliable. 

"  She  has  the  sympathy  too  without  which  all 
is  lost,"  the  doctor  said  to  himself  on  a  day 

140 


A  TELEPHONE  MESSAGE 

when  the  patient  was  very  bad  indeed,  "  and  yet 
she  never  shows  what  she  must  feel."  Sympathy 
and  self-control :  with  those  two  qualities  one 
could  do  anything;  but  how  seldom  Dr.  Lefevre 
had  found  them  in  juxtaposition  ! 

There  came  a  day  at  last  when  as  Mrs.  Foster 
sat  in  her  accustomed  place  by  the  window  the 
patient  opened  his  eyes  and  slow  speculation  grew 
in  them.  Something  too  of  memory  and  under- 
standing. There  was  a  clear  brisk  autumn  air  in 
the  room.  The  year  was  some  weeks  older  than 
when  he  had  arrived  at  the  Lion  of  Flanders. 
Slowly,  slowly,  he  began  to  piece  things  together. 

"  You  are  the  nurse?"  he  said  at  last,  his  eyes 
resting  on  the  quiet  figure  and  face.  Then  he 
repeated  the  question  in  halting  French. 

"I  am  the  nurse,"  Mrs.  Foster  said,  coming  to 
his  side.  "  I  am  so  glad  you  are  awake." 

He  looked  at  her  with  an  air  of  satisfaction. 

"You  are  English,"  he  said.  "  What  luck!" 
She  nodded  her  head.  Then  she  brought  him 
something  in  a  cup,  and  lifted  his  head  while  he 
swallowed  it.  A  few  minutes  after  she  had  laid 
him  down  gently  he  was  asleep  again. 

Several  days  passed  before  she  got  to  the  heart 
of  the  mystery. 

"  My  aunt,  Mrs.  Forrester?"  he  asked  in  one  of 

141 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

those  talks  which  gradually  he  was  allowed  to 
extend  by  a  sentence,  or  part  of  a  sentence,  each 
day,  as  his  condition  grew  more  and  more  satis- 
factory to  his  doctor  and  nurse.  "I  sent  for  her 
at  the  last,  when  I  felt  how  it  was  going  to  be 
with  me.  Did  she  not  come  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Forrester !  To  be  sure !  She  stayed  at 
Berenz  this  summer.  I  remember  to  have  seen 
her  and  heard  her  addressed  by  that  name.  She 
had  left  before  your  message  came." 

"  How  then  ...?*' 

He  looked  at  her  in  bewilderment  and  the  colour 
swept  her  cheek. 

"  The  message  came  to  me.  My  name  is  Fos- 
ter. I  live  in  Berenz  all  the  year  round.  It  was 
a  blunder,  of  course.  I  answered  the  message, 
seeing  that  it  was  a  case  of  illness.  There  was 
nothing  else  for  me  to  do,  was  there  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  not," — his  face  showed  his  stupe- 
faction. A  light  came  on  its  leanness.  "  What 
an  angelic  thing  to  do !  Why,  I  should  have  been 
dead,  only  for  you." 

"  Hush,  hush,"  she  said,  and  bent  to  smooth  his 
pillows.  "You  are  exciting  yourself.  A  good 
nurse  will  not  excite  her  patient.  You  are  to  be 
quiet  now,  and  I  shall  read  to  you.  Anything 
else?" 

142 


A  TELEPHONE  MESSAGE 

"  Yes,"  he  had  an  air  of  pleading.  "  Don't 
think  me  impertinent.  How  did  it  come  that  you 
were  able  to  leave  your  home?  " 

His  eyes  glanced  at  the  wedding-ring  on  her 
finger. 

"  I  have  no  one  belonging  to  me,"  she  answered 
quietly.  "  I  am  a  widow.  I  live  quite  alone  in 
Berenz.  I  have  been  living  there  for  five 
years." 

"  Why,"  he  said,  "I  too  am  all  but  alone  in  the 
world." 

After  that  he  was  quiet  while  she  read  to  him, 
and  presently  she  found  that  he  was  asleep. 

The  days  of  the  convalescence  slipped  by  gently. 
Presently  James  Sylvester  was  sitting  up  in  his 
room,  a  gaunt  and  shadowy  image  of  what  he  had 
been,  would  be  in  health,  yet  coming  more  and 
more  to  his  own  day  after  day.  Already  he  had 
made  an  effort  at  shaving  himself.  While  Mrs. 
Foster  held  the  glass  in  front  of  him  she  had 
laughed  at  the  woe-begone  face  with  which  he 
regarded  himself,  and  his  speech,  "  What  an  un- 
speakable looking  scoundrel ! " 

As  the  sound  of  her  own  laughter  reached  her 
it  startled  her.  That  laugh  belonged  to  a  girl  dead 
long  ago,  not  to  Amy  Foster.  Why,  she  had  not 
laughed  like  that  since,  since  .  .  .  oh,  not  for  long 

143 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

years.  He  looked  at  her  shyly  as  she  laughed, 
shyly,  yet  with  a  delight  in  her  mirth. 

"Am  I  horrible?"  he  asked,  as  he  essayed  the 
first  unsteady  stroke.  There  was  something  boyish 
and  innocent  in  the  shyness  of  his  eyes. 

"  I  think  you  are  very  pretty,"  she  said,  with  an 
unwonted  gaiety,  "and  a  credit  to  your  nurse." 

A  little  later  she  said  to  him  that  her  work  was 
nearly  at  an  end. 

"Dr.  Lefevre  thinks  that  you  will  be  able  to 
travel  in  a  week  or  two,"  she  said.  "  You  will 
be  glad  to  get  away  from  the  Lion  of  Flanders. 
Courcelles  is  indeed  the  back  of  God-speed,  and 
the  Lion  of  Flanders  has  been  asleep  these 
thousand  years  or  so  back." 

"  I  have  never  been  so  happy,"  he  answered,  "  as 
at  the  Lion  of  Flanders.  No  doubt  you  are  anxious 
to  get  back  to  Berenz  ?  " 

She  had  been  saying  to  herself  that  she  would 
be  glad  to  get  back  to  her  cottage,  to  the  friendly 
simple  people,  to  her  books  and  her  piano  and  her 
solitude.  She  had  been  feigning  that  the  place 
had  a  home-like  feeling  for  her.  Now  suddenly 
she  realised  that  Berenz  had  served  its  turn.  She 
was  no  longer  a  wounded  creature  desiring  only  a 
quiet  place  to  creep  into  and  be  at  rest.  She  saw 
vividly  for  an  instant  the  cottage  as  it  awaited  her 

144 


A  TELEPHONE  MESSAGE 

return.  Dust  and  drifts  of  sea-sand  on  everything, 
the  garden  in  the  sadness  of  autumn ;  the  decayed 
and  dying  holyhocks,  the  mouldering  vegetables, 
the  drift  of  dead  leafage  everywhere,  the  air  full  of 
a  rank  and  mouldering  smell.  She  turned  away 
from  the  picture.  Berenz  had  served  its  turn. 
How  was  she  to  live  through  the  long  winter  with 
its  endless  nights  ? 

"  Berenz  has  been  very  good  to  me,"  she 
answered  with  a  little  wavering  smile. 

In  an  instant  he  had  caught  at  her  two  hands. 

"  I  am  going  back  to  England,"  he  said,  "  but  I'm 
not  going  without  you.  Don't  tell  me  that  you 
have  only  nursed  me  back  to  life  in  order  to  con- 
demn me  to  loneliness  and  desolation.  I  know — 
I  have  seen  it  in  your  face  when  you  thought  that 
I  was  not  watching  you — that  in  some  other  life 
you  have  suffered  shipwreck.  Let  me  build  a  new 
life  for  you.  My  dear,  I  love  you."  She  let  him 
hold  her  hands ;  she  yielded  to  him  when  he  put 
his  arms  about  her  and  drew  her  to  him. 

"  You  know  nothing  at  all  about  me,"  she^sighed 
with  a  sigh  of  great  content.  "  Yet  you  love  me. 
You  ask  me  to  be  your  wife.  I  have  suffered  so 
much  in  the  past.  I  thought  life  was  over  for 
me." 

"  It  is  only  beginning.     I  have  an  old  house  in 

10  145 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

the  Weald  of  Sussex,  amid  woods  and  pastures. 
I  have  neglected  it.  A  lonely  man  has  little  use 
for  a  home.  You  will  make  my  home  there,  my 
beloved.  You  will  tell  rne  your  sad  story  and 
after  that  we  will  forget  it.  Our  life  together  is 
to  hold  nothing  but  happiness.  And  I  must  tell 
you  about  myself.  You  are  taking  me  on  trust 
also." 

Her  eyes  danced  with  a  new  merriment. 

"  You  forget  that  I  have  seen  Mrs.  Forrester," 
she  said  demurely. 

"Ah,  I  am  Aunt  Grace's  unworthy  nephew. 
Still,  oh,  yes,  I  am  quite  a  respectable  member  of 
society.  You  can  trust  me.  And  I  shall  be  good 
to  you." 

"Why,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh  of  exceeding 
happiness.  "I  thought  the  only  good  left  to  me 
was  rest.  I  thought  nothing  else  was  possible. 
But, — I  am  a  young  woman  still.  There  are  better 
things  for  me  than  rest." 

"  Much  better  than  rest,"  he  answered.  "Joy 
and  love  and  life.  We  will  make  the  world  over 
again  for  each  other." 


146 


THE  CHILDKEN  AT  OKEOVEKS. 

IT  was  a  lovely  afternoon  of  May.  Every  bank 
was  pale  and  sweet  with  primroses.  The  low 
apple-trees  in  the  little  orchard  were  dressed  in 
pink.  The  black  'pigs  rooted  and  grunted  in  the 
long  grass.  Wild  hyacinths  stood  tiptoe  in  every 
coppice,  making  a  cloud  of  blue.  Birds  were  sing- 
ing, and  the  leaves  were  out  in  their  tenderest  green. 
Okeovers  stood  on  the  side  of  the  hill  overlook- 
ing the  valley,  a  two-storeyed,  ancient,  red  house 
with  seven  windows  abreast  in  the  upper  storey. 
Over  the  hall-door,  which  was  reached  by  a  single 
step,  there  was  a  name  and  a  date  : — 

GULIELMUS  OKEOVER  ME  FECIT,  1682. 

The  house  was  rather  like  a  small  manor-house 
than  a  farm-house.  To  be  sure  the  Okeovers  had 
been  yeomen  farmers  and  very  highly  respected  in 
Stansted  parish  even  before  Okeovers  was  built. 
The  church  records  were  full  of  Okeovers,  nearly 
as  many  of  them  as  of  Percevals  at  the  Place. 

147 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

Just  round  the  corner  of  the  house  where  the 
neglected  garden  sloped  down  to  the  orchard  there 
were  a  group  of  children  crouched  on  the  grass, 
playing  with  white  stones,  that  afternoon  of  May. 

There  was  something  oddly  stealthy  and  quiet 
about  their  play,  such  as  it  was,  for  indeed  they 
did  not  seem  accustomed  to  play  even  with  the 
white  stones  so  aimless  were  their  movements. 

A  little  way  from  them,  her  back  turned  to  them, 
her  face  looking  in  the  direction  of  the  little- 
frequented  road  that  climbed  from  the  valley  and 
ran  straight  past  what  had  once  been  the  lawn  of 
Okeovers,  was  a  girl  of  about  sixteen,  older  than 
the  others,  with  a  wild  mane  of  black  hair  about 
her  shoulders  and  face. 

She  was  Molly  Okeover,  John  Okeover's  eldest 
daughter,  and  the  mother  in  a  sort  of  her  little 
sisters  and  brothers,  doubly  orphaned  since  John 
Okeover  had  been  killed  by  the  fall  of  a  tree  he 
was  taking  down  in  the  preceding  autumn. 

Through  the  veil  of  Molly's  hair  Molly's  eyes 
flashed,  fierce,  in  torture,  burnt  up  with  tears  that 
had  no  refreshment  in  them.  Molly  had  been 
keeping  those  tears  in  her  eyes — none  had  seen 
them  fall — for  some  three  weeks  now,  ever  since 
her  baby  step -brother  had  been  laid  away  in 
Stansted  churchyard. 

148 


THE  CHILDEEN  AT  OKEOVEES 

"  A  good  thing,  too,"  said  tlie  neighbours,  nor 
thought  themselves  hard  to  say  it.  "  It  would 
never  have  grown  up  like  other  children.  Any 
one  could  see  that  it  hadn't  been  right  from  the 
birth,  with  its  eyes  that  never  could  keep  still,  and 
its  mouth  always  hanging  open." 

Others  had  said  that  the  child  was  a  judgment 
on  Sarah  Jane  Okeover  for  the  way  she  treated 
her  step-children. 

Anyhow  it  was  gone,  and  Molly  who  had  been 
its  only  nurse  was  in  savage  pain  for  the  loss  of  it ; 
her  thin  arms  empty  night  and  day  for  the  feel  of 
it,  her  childish  breast  hungering  for  the  warmth  of 
it. 

One  would  have  thought  that  Molly  would  have 
had  enough  to  do  to  be  fond  of  her  own  brothers 
and  sisters  without  attaching  herself  to  a  child 
of  Sarah  Jane  Okeover's.  But  then  Molly  had 
nursed  the  uncanny  child,  had  walked  the  wide 
draughty  bedroom  night  after  night  with  it,  had 
washed  it  and  fed  it  and  tried  to  win  recognition 
from  it  for  many  a  month. 

How  often  she  had  refused  to  let  people  look  at 
her  baby — it  was  always  hers.  What  could  they 
want  to  see  him  for  but  to  say  cruel  things  of 
him?  He  was  not  what  they  said,  Molly  was 
sure  of  it.  He  began  to  know  her.  She  was  sure 

149 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

she  felt  his  relaxed  little  fingers  cling  to  hers. 
Then  he  had  a  teething  fit,  and  the  frail  life  was 
over,  almost  before  Molly  had  realised  the  danger. 

It  was  a  sad  life  that  John  Okeover's  children 
led  under  the  second  wife's  rule.  For  the  matter 
of  that  his  own  life  had  been  sad  enough.  He 
had  been  a  burly  black-bearded,  black-haired  man 
with  a  ruddy  complexion ;  a  man  of  a  great  build 
although  not  tall :  and  easy-going  to  weakness. 

He  had  remained  a  widower  so  long  that  no 
one  ever  thought  of  his  marrying  again.  He  had 
seemed  happy  enough,  though  his  beautiful  old 
house  was  neglected  for  want  of  a  mistress.  Molly 
had  done  her  best  after  her  mother's  death,  but 
Molly  herself  was  only  a  child. 

Then  one  day  he  had  surprised  them  all  by 
bringing  home  a  new  wife.  Heaven  knows  why 
he  had  chosen  Sarah  Jane.  She  was  a  thin 
woman  with  a  complaining  mouth  and  thin,  faded 
wisps  of  dull  light  hair  falling  about  a  colourless 
face.  She  was  rather  small  and  her  back  had  a 
crooked  line.  All  the  same  she  was  as  strong  as  a 
horse,  but  in  her  quiet  way  she  was  a  born  shrew 
and  tyrant.  She  was  one  of  the  busy  slatterns  we 
have  all  known  who  keep  their  houses  in  a  ferment 
yet  never  attain  to  either  cleanliness  or  comfort. 
What  possessed  John  Okeover  ?  asked  the  neigh- 

150 


THE  CHILDKEN  AT  OKEOVEES 

bours.  Perhaps  Sarah  Jane  had  presented  herself 
to  him  in  a  different  light  during  the  courtship. 
Anyhow  she  made  him  in  time  quite  as  miserable 
as  she  made  the  children,  so  that  perhaps  he  was 
not  very  sorry  when  that  tree  fell  and  his  life  with 
it. 

There  were  five  children  in  all,  two  boys  and 
three  girls.  They  were  loving,  passionate  children, 
who  had  inherited  the  gipsy  looks  of  the  Okeovers, 
with  a  certain  gentleness  and  refinement  which 
perhaps  came  to  them  from  their  mother  who 
had  been  a  poor  governess  when  John  Okeover 
married  her,  but  a  lady  born,  being  a  parson's 
daughter. 

The  house  to  which  John  Okeover  brought 
Sarah  Jane  had  been  the  pride  and  joy  of  the 
parson's  daughter  as  of  many  notable  housewives 
who  preceded  her.  It  was  a  beautiful  house, 
within  as  without,  with  spacious  lofty  rooms, 
oak  floors  and  oak-panelling,  an  oak  staircase, 
great  fire-places  lined  with  old  Dutch  tiles.  The 
principal  bedroom  had  a  powdering  closet.  The 
parlour  had  deep  cupboards  for  china  and  deep 
windows.  But  the  pride  and  glory  of  the  house 
was  its  kitchen,  with  its  enormous  fire-place  for 
logs,  its  great  screen  of  oak,  its  tables  and  benches 
of  oak,  polished  with  age  and  blackened,  its  walls 

151 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

of  innumerable  cupboards  entirely  panelled  witb 
oak. 

In  the  beautiful  old  house  the  parson's  daughter 
had  lived  gently,  had  brought  up  her  children 
to  live  gently.  There  was  always  some  one  to  do 
the  roughest  work.  Mrs.  Okeover  cooked  daintily 
and  swept  and  dusted  and  made  beds ;  and  Molly 
had  delighted  in  helping  her  when  she  was  per- 
mitted. 

In  those  happy  days  Molly  and  Robin  and  Lucy 
went  to  the  dame  school  in  Stansted  village. 
Eoger  was  only  a  baby  then,  and  Bella  was  not  yet 
born. 

The  quiet  influence  of  the  first  Mrs.  Okeover 
had  made  a  paradise  of  the  home.  No  wonder 
John  Okeover  had  drooped  and  pined  after  she 
had  left  him,  with  a  fretful  baby  added  to  his 
household  of  small  children.  There  were  people 
who  said  that  John  Okeover  had  grown  stupid 
after  his  loss :  and  that  perhaps  explained  how  he 
had  come  to  let  Sarah  Jane  marry  him. 

The  house  appealed  to  Sarah  Jane's  housewifely 
instincts  as  it  had  done  to  the  first  Mrs.  Okeover. 
But  her  way  of  showing  it  was  very  different. 

To  be  sure  things  had  grown  a  bit  slatternly 
during  the  years  since  the  mistress  had  died. 
Sarah  Jane  set  herself  to  remedy  that.  She  in- 


THE  CHILDEEN  AT  OKEOVEKS 

augurated  a  tremendous  cleaning  in  which,  to  do 
her  justice,  she  did  not  spare  herself.  Neither  did 
she  spare  the  children.  She  sniffed  contemptuously 
when  she  discovered  that  they  had  never  learnt  to 
clean  grates  or 'scrub  floors.  They  should  be  taught 
differently.  She  wasn't  going  to  have  any  idle  flesh 
on  her  floors. 

The  cleaning  was  accomplished  with  a  vast  deal 
of  discomfort.  It  was  Sarah  Jane's  way  to  throw 
every  room  into  chaos  at  once  and  keep  it  so  as 
long  as  possible.  But  when  finally  it  was  accom- 
plished Sarah  Jane  discovered  that  the  house 
proper  was  too  fine  for  living  in.  Why  not  take 
lodgers  ?  The  kitchens  and  the  garrets  over  the 
stables  were  quite  good  enough  to  accommodate  the 
family. 

Sarah  Jane  had  her  way,  though  at  first  John 
Okeover  resisted  her.  She  had  the  deadly  per- 
sistence which  always  has  it  own  way  in  the  end. 
What  if  the  Okeovers  had  never  been  accustomed 
to  live  in  the  back  kitchen?  It  was  time  they 
began.  What  if  John  Okeover  perceived  no  need 
for  taking  lodgers,  since  the  land  was  doing  very 
well?  There  was  only  one  pleasure  possible  to 
Sarah  Jane's  meagre  nature  and  that  was  to  add 
penny  to  penny  till  they  mounted  to  pounds  ;  and 
Sarah  Jane  meant  to  have  it. 

153 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

She  had  her  way  about  the  lodgers.  She  ad- 
vertised and  they  came.  There  were  a  good  many 
relays  of  them,  for  Sarah  Jane's  cooking  was  in- 
different, and  her  pinching  ways  offended  people. 
Still  the  rooms  were  always  full ;  the  house  and  its 
situation  were  so  beautiful  that  they  attracted 
people ;  and  some  were  patient  with  other  defici- 
encies because  of  the  charm  and  quiet  of  the  place. 

Meanwhile,  the  Okeover  family  huddled  into  the 
back  kitchen,  where  the  stone  floors  oozed  damp 
perpetually  and  the  economical  fires  of  green  wood 
made  the  eyes  weep.  There  were  no  windows, 
and  light  was  only  possible  when  the  door  was 
opened,  so  that  it  had  to  stand  open  all  day,  how- 
ever the  wind  was.  The  odour  of  the  back  kitchen 
was  compounded  of  green-wood  smoke,  washing, 
and  the  smell  of  the  pigs  in  the  farmyard.  But 
in  time  the  young  Okeovers  became  insensitive 
to  such  a  small  matter  as  the  atmosphere,  having 
worse  things  to  put  up  with. 

The  three  older  went  no  more  to  school.  Sarah 
Jane  had  had  no  more  schooling  than  enabled  her 
to  add  up  cheating  accounts  and  that  seemed  to 
her  as  much  as  any  one  need  know.  And  she  had 
plenty  of  occupation  for  them.  Her  plan  of  keep- 
ing lodgers  did  not  include  any  additional  service 
in  the  house.  On  her  first  introduction  to  her  step- 


THE  CHILDEEN  AT  OKEOVEES 

children  her  cold  eye  had  rested  on  them  apprais- 
ing the  strength  of  their  handsome  young  bodies  in 
so  far  as  she  could  use  it. 

To  be  sure  the  humblest  kitchen  slut  would  not 
stay  with  Sarah  Jane.  No  creature  that  had  any 
loophole  of  escape  would  bear  the  deadly  driving, 
the  incessant  quiet  nagging  of  Sarah  Jane  Okeover. 
The  dogs  that  had  lain  on  the  hearth  in  the  easy 
years  were  driven  out  of  doors  and  half-starved 
now.  Even  a  cat  was  not  permitted  under  the 
new  regime.  And  the  odd  thing  was,  seeing  what 
an  insignificant  iwisp  of  a  woman  she  was,  with  so 
quiet  an  air,  that  she  managed  to  inspire  every 
creature  that  came  in  contact  with  her  with  a 
deadly  fear. 

The  children  in  time  became  her  unresisting 
drudges.  What  was  their  puny  rebellion  against 
her  quiet  persistence  ?  They  did  all  the  work  of 
the  house,  scrubbing  stone  stairs  and  passages  on 
their  small  knees,  carrying  coal  and  water,  wash- 
ing, scrubbing  acres  of  rooms  with  their  small, 
unformed  hands.  Besides  there  was  incessant 
work  among  the  pigs  and  fowls  and  in  the  cow- 
houses outside.  And  the  children  did  it  all. 

At  first,  Molly  rebelled  with  all  her  passionate 
heart,  and  more  for  the  others  than  for  herself. 
Too  wise  for  her  youth,  she  saw  the  deterioration 

155 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

in  the  other  children ;  how  Robin  —  who  whe 
he  had  ridden  to  hounds  by  his  father's  side  ha 
looked  as  fine  a  young  gentleman  as  Mr.  Spenct 
Perceval  himself — grew  shock-headed,  sullen,  dirt 
He  became  friends  with  the  labourers,  who  symp* 
thised  with  the  children  as  all  the  world  did  an 
were  ready  to  alleviate  his  hard  lot  with  a  pint  ( 
beer  or  a  pull  at  a  dirty  pipe. 

She  saw  that  the  little  ones  grew  stunted,  coars< 
looking;  that  they  learned  to  lie  cleverly  so  i 
avert  their  tyrant's  wrath.  To  be  sure  they  coul 
not  remember  their  own  mother  as  Molly  did. 

Molly  had  few  opportunities  for  prayers.  Tt 
children,  who  were  up  at  peep-of-day  and  drudge 
all  day  like  the  most  hard-used  animals,  were  read 
to  tumble  into  the  deep  sleep  of  exhaustion  th 
minute  they  reached  their  miserable  beds  at  nigh 
But  Molly  sometimes  lay  awake  at  night,  her  fier 
soul  chafing  her  tired-out  body,  praying  passior 
ately  that  she  should  not  forget  Mother  and  th 
things  Mother  had  taught  her,  in  these  horribl 
new  days. 

The  coming  of  the  unhappy  baby  made  all  th 
difference  to  Molly.  It  was  not  drudgery  to  he] 
once  she  came  to  love  the  elfish  thing,  to  walk  th 
room  with  it  at  night,  to  carry  it  about  all  da 
where  a  gleam  of  sun  might  help  it  to  live.  Moll 

156 


THE  CHILDKEN  AT  OKEOVEES 

had  loved  the  baby  with  maternal  passion,  intensi- 
fied because  of  its  need.  After  the  first  she  had  not 
remembered  that  it  was  the  child  of  the  cruel  step- 
mother. She  pushed  Sarah  Jane'  out.  Maternal 
love  ihad  been  indeed  only  a  starveling  growth  in 
Sarah  Jane's  arid  heart.  The  baby  was  Molly's. 
When  the  little  half-awake  spirit  had  flown  it  was 
Molly's  hands  that  made  the  little  body  ready  for 
its  coffin  and  placed  it  there.  It  was  Molly  who 
grieved  with  a  primal  passion  for  the  little  face 
laid  away  under  the  clay. 

She  was  possessed  with  her  passion  of  grief  this 
afternoon  to  the  exclusion  of  other  things.  The 
children, — Molly  always  called  the  younger  ones 
the  children,  as  though  she  herself  were  not  a  child, 
— were  playing  their  timorous  games  in  Sarah 
Jane's  absence.  Robin  had  stolen  away,  to  some 
of  his  friends  among  the  labouring  men  most  likely. 
Sarah  Jane  was  gone  to  see  her  lawyer  at  Brum- 
leigh.  The  children  had  done  their  work  for  the 
day.  But  even  when  the  work  was  done  Sarah 
Jane's  rule  admitted  of  no  relaxation.  The  chil- 
dren set  out  their  white  stones  in  patterns,  heaped 
them  upon  each  other,  all  the  time  their  ears 
listening,  like  the  ears  of  a  startled  hare,  for  the 
wheels  that  should  herald  the  tyrant's  return. 

Molly  knew  what  Sarah  Jane's  business  was 

157 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

with  the  lawyers  and  had  hardly  the  heart  to  cai 
John  Okeover  had  left  everything  in  Sarah  Jane 
hands  and  Sarah  Jane  was  tired  of  Okeovei 
Even  such  as  she  may  sometimes  desire  popularity 
and  the  air  about  Okeovers  was  distinctly  ink 
ical.  The  countryside  resented  her  treatment 
the  children.  She  was  minded  to  be  done  wi 
Okeovers  and  the  unfriendly  neighbours.  The  mi 
land  town  that  had  cradled  her  was  more  to  h 
liking.  And  lodgers  had  fallen  off  of  late.  She  pr 
posed  to  sell  Okeovers  for  what  it  would  fet< 
and  buy  with  it  a  public-house  in  her  native  tow 

Molly  had  listened  to  Robin's  passionate  protes 
against  the  scheme,  feeling  coldly  outside  his  ange 
To  be  sure  she  loved  Eobin  and  Lucy  and  t] 
little  ones,  but  none  of  them  needed  her  as  tl 
baby  had  needed  her.  And  Okeovers  wasn't  t] 
same  since  Sarah  Jane  had  brought  in  the  lodgei 
and  degraded  them  all,  and  planted  hen-coops  * 
over  the  velvety  lawn  that  had  been  the  first  Mi 
Okeover's  pride,  with  its  roses  and  arbour  and  su: 
dial  and  pigeon-cote. 

Molly  had  a  thought  that  brought  her  an  oc 
comfort,  that  perhaps  Baby  and  his  own  Moth 
had  met  in  Heaven.  Molly  was  sure  that  Moth 
would  never  remember  against  the  baby  that  San 
Jane  had  a  part  in  him.  He  was  Daddy's  and  1 

158 


THE  CHILDEEN  AT  OKEOVEES 

was  Molly's.  Sarah  Jane  was  only  an  inessential 
accident  in  Molly's  eyes. 

Suddenly  as  Molly  stood  there  she  heard  the 
rattle  of  wheels.  She  turned  a  little  pale  from 
force  of  habit — since  the  baby  had  died  she  had  not 
seemed  to  care  for  Sarah  Jane's  frown — and  turn- 
ing she  gave  the  word  to  the  children.  Then  she 
whistled  sharply. 

The  three  children  flung  their  stones  into  the 
garden-bed  under  cover  of  the  rhubarb-leaves  and 
fled  into  the  house.  A  few  seconds  passed  and 
Robin  came  round  the  side  of  the  house,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  with  an  air  of  not  being  in  a 
hurry. 

"  She's  coming,"  Molly  said,  with  a  backward 
glance  at  the  boy.  His  beauty  and  air  of  distin- 
tion,  even  in  his  rough  clothes,  struck  her  suddenly, 
like  a  revelation.  He  was  the  image  of  Mother's 
brother,  the  fine  young  gentleman  in  uniform 
whose  picture  hung  in  the  parlour,  presently  no 
doubt  to  be  auctioned  off  with  all  the  other  be- 
longings of  Okeovers.  Eobin  was  very  like  Uncle 
Eupert,  Mother's  darling  heroic  brother,  who  had 
been  killed  in  battle.  It  all  seemed  worlds  away 
to  Molly. 

"  She  can't  be  back  yet,"  said  Eobin,  corning  to 
her  side  and  looking  down  the  hill.  "It  is  some- 

159 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

one  else.    The  doctor  most  likely ;  Briggs'  childrer 
are    all  bad  with  sore-throats  from  drinking  th< 
pond-water.     Daddy  promised  to  sink  a  pump,  bir 
she  wouldn't  do  it.    I'm  going  to  run  away,  Molly 
I  shan't  go  to  that  dirty  town  with  her." 

For  a  moment  Molly  forgot  the  baby  and  hei 
heart  gave  a  sudden  throb  of  alarm  for  Kobin 
She  put  out  her  hand  and  drew  him  to  her  side 
For  a  moment  she  arraigned  her  father  who  hac 
left  them  to  Sarah  Jane.  Then  she  reproachec 
herself.  Poor  Daddy,  how  miserable  he  used  tc 
look !  And  how  tender  he  had  been  to  them  wher 
Sarah  Jane  was  not  looking !  And  what  if  Eobir 
ran  away.  Why  he  could  do  no  worse  for  himsel 
than  Sarah  Jane  was  likely  to  do.  Molly  had  ar 
odd  terror  of  that  town  public-house  for  Eobin. 

The  vehicle  they  had  heard  came  slowly  int< 
sight.  It  was  not  the  doctor's  smart  gig,  neithe] 
was  it  Sarah  Jane's  governess-cart  with  its  lear 
old  pony,  whose  bare  ribs  Sarah  Jane  was  won 
to  belabour  unmercifully  as  she  drove  him  uj 
the  steep  hills. 

"It  is  a  station-fly,"  said  Robin. 

"  Some  one  about  the  lodgings,"  suggestec 
Molly. 

"  Perhaps  not  for  us  at  all,"  said  Robin. 

The  other  children  came  creeping  back,  having 

160 


THE  CHILDKEN  AT  OKEOVEKS 

reconnoitred  from  the  upper  windows  and  seen 
that  it  was  not  the  thing  they  dreaded. 

The  fly  came  on,  between  the  gates  that  crossed 
the  almost  private  road  just  before  it  wound  by 
Okeovers  house-front,  stopped  nearly  opposite  the 
children,  and  the  lady,  who  was  its  one  occupant, 
alighted. 

She  came  towards  them  across  the  untidy  lawn, 
holding  her  skirt  daintily  uplifted  in  one  hand. 
She  was  quietly  but  beautifully  dressed.  She  had 
soft  brown  hair  parted  under  her  bonnet,  a  tran- 
quil forehead,  large  blue  eyes  that  had  a  look  of 
shining,  a  tender  yet  strong  mouth.  Her  air  as 
she  came  was  soft  and  motherly. 

Molly  gasped  something  under  her  breath,  was 

it ?  But,  no,  of  course  Mother  was  dead. 

Then  who  was  this  lady  that  was  so  like  her  ? 
Who, —  who  but  Aunt  Lucy,  Mother's  only 
sister,  who  had  married  long  ago  and  gone  to 
Australia. 

"My  poor  children,"  said  the  lady, bursting  into 
tears,  and  sobbing  and  holding  out  her  kind  arms. 
"  I  came  as  quickly  as  I  could,  after  receiving  your 
father's  letter,  but  it  took  time.  And  now  I  hear 
he  is  dead :  but  he  told  me  to  come  before  he  died. 
I  never  had  any  children  of  my  own.  Oh,  Kobin, 
— is  this  Eobin  or  is  it  our  dear  Kupert  come  to 

11  161 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

life  again?  And  you  are  Molly,  my  darling.  And 
which  is  Lucy,  my  namesake  ?  And  little  Hilda, 
my  god-child.  Oh,  my  poor,  poor  children  !  " 

She  was  sobbing  it  all  out  half -inarticulately,  and 
embracing  them  one  after  the  other,  and  then  all 
in  a  heap.  She  never  seemed  to  notice  the  coarse 
clothes  and  the  grimed  hands,  and  the  disordered 
hair,  nor  how  Robin  smelt  of  the  stables  and  of 
coarse  tobacco.  Perhaps  she  was  not  very  squeam- 
ish for  all  her  pure  and  dainty  look,  seeing  that  she 
had  spent  a  good  many  years  in  the  Bush.  Any- 
how she  no  more  shrank  from  the  children  than 
their  own  mother  would  have  shrunk  if  God  had 
permitted  her  to  return  as  the  children  had  often 
dreamt.  Molly  shut  her  eyes.  Even  the  ache  for 
the  baby  was  lost  for  the  moment  in  the  sense  of 
comfort  and  sweetness  that  Aunt  Lucy  seemed  to 
have  brought  with  her. 

"And  I  hear  Okeovers  is  in  the  market/'  she 
went  on.  "At  least  it  was  in  the  market.  I  saw 
the  advertisement  as  soon  as  I  landed  and  stopped 
long  enough  in  London  to  see  an  old  friend  of 
mine  who  is  a  lawyer,  and  tell  him  to  buy  it  for  me. 
I  expect  he  has  made  an  offer  by  this  time.  What 
a  sweet  old  house  !  I  have  a  photograph  of  it 
which  your  mother  sent  me.  How  happy  we  shall 
be  here  all  together !  " 

162 


THE  CHILDEEN  AT  OKEOVEES 

At  last  Molly  remembered  to  fetch  a  chair  from 
within  doors  and  ask  Aunt  Lucy  to  sit  down. 
The  stolid  coachman  was  feeding  his  horse,  giving 
no  sign  of  the  lively  curiosity  which  burned  in  his 
breast.  The  dogs  crept  round  the  corner  of  the 
house  and  fawned  on  the  children  and  the  new- 
comer. 

"  The  little  ones  must  have  a  nurse,"  said  Aunt 
Lucy.  "  And  you,  Eobin,  must  go  to  school.  I 
should  like  you  to  be  a  soldier  like  your  Uncle 
Eupert,  and  you  must  work  hard,  for  you  have  not 
very  much  time.  But  I  can't  spare  Molly  ;  I  want 
Molly  for  my  companion,  so  she  must  have  a  gover- 
ness. Do  you  think  I  could  sleep  here  to-night, 
Molly  ?  I  daresay  I  really  own  the  house  at  this 
moment.  And  I  will  send  word  by  the  driver  of 
the  fly  to  the  big  draper's  in  Brumleigh  to  send 
out  a  dressmaker  to-morrow  with  dress-materials 
for  you  children,  and  suits  for  Eobin  and 
Jock." 

With  what  relief  the  children  saw  the  fly  drive 
away,  leaving  Aunt  Lucy  behind  it ;  for  if  she  had 
gone  they  could  never  have  believed  she  could  come 
again ! 

Then  Sarah  Jane  arrived,  her  mean  face 
puckering  and  frowning  as  she  saw  that  the 
children  had  a  visitor  with  whom  they  seemed  so 

163 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

much  at  home  and  happy  that  they  forgot  to 
scatter  at  her  approach.  She  had  returned  in  a 
gracious  humour  because  she  had  learned  that 
Okeovers  was  sold,  but  she  forgot  about  it  in  her 
indignation  at  the  sight  of  the  idle  children. 

"I  suppose  you've  come  after  the  lodgings,"  she 
said  sharply,  "but  there  isn't  any  use.  I'm  not 
letting  lodgings  now.  I've  sold  the  house  and 
farm.  Be  off  about  your  work,  children.  How 
dare  you  be  idling  like  this  !  " 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  Aunt  Lucy,  keeping  the 
children  from  scattering  by  a  sudden  protecting 
gesture,  as  though  she  extended  around  them  a 
pair  of  wide  invisible  wings.  "I  have  not  come 
after  the  lodgings.  I'm  Mrs.  Eodney,  these 
childrens'  aunt,  and  I've  bought  Okeovers.  I've 
come  to  stay.  My  luggage  will  be  sent  on  from 
the  hotel.  Their  father  gave  me  the  guardianship 
of  the  children  in  a  duly  signed  and  sealed  docu- 
ment a  few  days  before  he  died.  I'd  have  been 
here  before  only  I  had  to  wind  up  my  affairs  in 
Australia.  The  will  that  was  found  after  his 
death,  Mrs.  Okeover,  I  don't  know  that  it  would 
stand  in  a  court  of  law  if  any  one  had  been  suffi- 
ciently interested  in  the  children  to  question  it. 
However,  I'm  a  rich  woman.  I  don't  care  to  drag 
the  name  in  the  dirt.  You  can  have  the  price  of 

164 


THE  CHILDBEN  AT  OKEOVEBS 

Okeovers ;  but  I  want  my  house  to  myself  and 
the  children  as  soon  as  possible." 

The  children  did  not  follow  it  all.  They  only 
saw  that  the  tyrant  was  vanquished.  Looking 
suddenly  ill  Sarah  Jane  crept  within  the  house 
and  put  her  belongings  together. 

When  she  left  Okerovers  for  ever  she  took  with 
her  a  good  many  things  to  which  she  had  no  right. 
Even  her  fear  of  the  woman  who  had  discovered 
her  iniquity  and  scorned  to  take  advantage  of  it, 
could  not  keep  her  from  carrying  off  silver  forks, 
and  a  silver  "soup  tureen,  with  various  other  uncon- 
sidered  trifles  of  the  same  sort. 

But  it  mattered  nothing  to  the  children,  nothing 
to  Aunt  Lucy,  nothing  to  Okeovers,  returning  to 
its  ancient  dignity  and  comeliness.  Perhaps  it 
needs  a  season  of  bitter  adversity  to  make  one 
realise  the  full  meaning  of  happiness.  Molly  never 
forgot  the  things  she  had  endured,  any  more  than 
she  forgot  the  baby,  the  poor  little  maimed  inno- 
cence that  had  helped  ;her  to  bear  the  trouble. 
But  Kobin,  become  a  young  gentleman,  and  soon  to 
be  a  soldier  of  the  king,  forgot,  and  the  children 
forgot.  The  new  happiness  was  enough  for  the 
children. 


165 


THE  KIND  SAINT. 

I  HAD  been  at  the  convent  since  I  was  a  little  one, 
since  my  dear  parents  had  sent  me  home  from 
India  to  the  nuns,  one  of  whom  was  my  mother's 
school-friend.  And  I  was  happy  there,  although 
the  most  without  ties  in  the  outside  world  of  all 
that  happy  family  of  children.  For  the  dear  father 
and  mother  had  died,  leaving  me  alone  in  the 
world  except  for  my  father's  Aunt  Sarah ;  and  of 
her  I  had  but  a  terrified  childish  memory,  of  an 
old  person  who  wore  gay  colours,  and  shook  terrible 
grey  curls  at  me,  and  spoke  in  a  loud,  harsh  voice,  so 
that  I  sobbed  as  I  hid  my  face  in  Mother  Margaret's 
robe. 

It  was  a  memory  of  a  visit  once  paid  to  me  by 
Aunt  Sarah,  the  one  and  only  visit  at  the  convent. 
I  think  she  was  very  angry  at  my  mother's  choice 
for  me,  holding  that  I  should  have  been  sent  to 
her.  She  did  not  like  the  nuns  or  their  religion, 
and  was  unbelieving  when  Mother  Margaret  as- 
sured her  that  my  religion  would  not  be  meddled 

166 


THE  KIND  SAINT 

with.  Nor  was  it  during  all  the  years  that  I  was 
the  child  of  the  house,  dear  to  the  motherly  nuns 
because  I  had  no  mother  or  father  upon  earth. 
It  was  not  their  fault  if  I  grafted  on  to  my  own 
religion  certain  observances  of  theirs.  Seeing  how 
I  loved  them  I  wonder  that  I  went  no  farther. 

But  now  it  was  all  over,  all  the  long  placid  years 
illumined  as  though  with  the  hidden  light  that 
made  the  faces  of  the  nuns  like  so  many  veiled 
sanctuary  lamps.  Over  the  games  in  the  high 
wind-swept  garden,  with  the  cemetery  of  the  nuns 
at  its  heart.  We  did  not  shout  the  less  nor  laugh 
the  less  whole-heartedly  because  that  was  there. 
To  the  young  Memento  Mori  means  only  a  warning 
for  the  old.  Over  the  lessons  and  lectures  in  the 
big,  sunny,  school-room,  the  meals  in  the  refectory 
where  we  listened  to  the  Lives  of  the  Saints  in 
silence  till  the  pause  of  the  reader's  voice  set  free 
a  babel  of  chattering  tongues.  Over  the  girlish 
passions  for  the  nuns,  the  good  school-girl  friend- 
ships, the  quiet  sleeps  in  the  dormitory  at  nights 
where  the  eye  of  the  lamp  before  the  angel's  statue 
watched  like  a  star. 

Aunt  Sarah's  house  was  great  and  gaunt  and 
turned  a  blank  face  to  the  road  with  but  one  eye 
of  window.  As  it  happened  that  eye  fell  to  me, 
but  it  was  no  concession  on  her  part.  Indeed 

167 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

there  was  nothing  to  see  from  it  but  a  wide  waste 
of  moor  and  bogland.  A  tree  had  been  welcome, 
but  there  were  no  trees.  A  few  cattle  browsed  over 
the  marshes.  Sometimes  I  saw  a  brown-faced  herd- 
boy  driving  them  afield.  I  had  a  glimpse  of  the 
sea  beyond  where  the  pearly  sky  melted  into 
mother-o' -pearl,  and  when  the  wind  blew  from  it 
I  smelt  its  sweetness  and  heard  its  monotonous 
song  on  the  stretch  of  sandy  beach. 

I  liked  to  turn  my  face  that  way.  It  was  the 
way  into  the  world ;  the  way  back  to  the  convent, 
the  gay  and  gentle  life  of  which  I  thought  upon 
with  tears. 

A  little  road  wound  by  the  wall  of  the  house, 
but  I  hardly  ever  saw  any  one  pass  there  except 
the  herd-boy,  and  now  and  again  a  peasant,  and 
once  a  farmer  driving  in  his  gig ;  which  was  not 
wonderful  seeing  that  the  road  went  nowhere  but 
to  the  marshes  and  Aunt  Sarah's  house,  being  a 
mere  loop  from  the  main  road.  And  yet  we  were 
but  thirty  miles  from  a  great  town. 

There  were  none  but  old  people  in  the  house. 
There  was  Aunt  Sarah,  and  her  companion,  Miss 
Maddox,  a  rosy-faced,  small-eyed  woman,  whom 
at  first  I  looked  upon  as  a  friend,  But  later  I  did 
not  think  that  she  was  so,  but  suspected  her  of 
winning  my  confidence  so  that  she  might  embroil 

168 


THE  KIND  SAINT 

me  with  Aunt  Sarah.  The  poor  wretch  was  jealous 
of  her  hold  upon  her  employer,  and  was  attached 
to  her  in  a  way,  so  that  I  forgive  her. 

Then  there  was  old  Fairy,  an  old  old  dog,  who 
lay  in  a  basket  and  was  blind  and  cried  piteously  if 
any  hand  touched  her  but  Aunt  Sarah's.  And  there 
was  Peter,  the  cat,  who  had  had  half  his  fur 
burnt  off  in  an  accident.  And  there  were  two 
ancient  and  sour  women-servants ;  and  Matthew, 
the  man  of  all  work,  who  was  ever  ready  to  run  with 
complaints  to  my  aunt  if  I  so  much  as  plucked  a 
flower. 

It  was  very  sad  between  them  all.  We  went  to 
church  on  Sundays,  driven  by  Matthew  in  a  coat 
three  sizes  too  big  for  him  and  with  one  of  its 
brass  buttons  missing  from  the  back.  The  carriage 
smelt  moudily ;  and  the  church  had  a  pinched  and 
withered  congregation.  The  parson,  poor  thing, 
was  hunch-backed  and  had  had  sore  trouble  of  his 
own,  which  doubtless  embittered  his  views.  His 
was  a  fierce  and  unlovely  creed.  I  never  remember 
to  have  heard  him  speak  of  the  Love  of  God,  al- 
though constantly  of  His  wrath,  painting  which 
he  would  lash  his  poor  little  twisted  body  into  con- 
tortions of  despair. 

Once  when  he  visited  us  and  my  aunt  reported 
to  him  that  I  had  a  foolish  scheme  for  covering 

169 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

the  gable  of  the  house  with  a  climbing  rose  he 
bade  me  beware  of  the  lust  of  the  eye,  and  he 
defended  some  piggish  cottages  of  the  neighbour- 
hood, where  children  withered  amid  filth,  because 
it  was  well  that  human  bodies  should  be  mortified 
by  having  to  bear  with  the  things  they  least  liked. 
I  think  he  had  not  forgiven  me  the  convent. 
I  sometimes  caught  him  watching  me  as  though 
I  were  a  daughter  of  Heth :  and  he  liked  to  dis- 
course in  my  presence  of  the  Scarlet  Woman  and 
her  abominations,  with  a  fierce  little  dull  eye  upon 
me. 

I  can  see  myself  sitting  there  now  in  the  bleak 
room  full  of  the  cold  northern  light,  on  a  stiff  chair, 
with  a  little  flowered  silk  kerchief  about  my 
shoulders,  my  hands  in  mittens  clasped  in  my  lap, 
my  young  body  clad  in  a  straight  gown  of  silk, 
my  white-stockinged  feet  with  their  bronze  shoes 
meekly  placed  together. 

So  I  saw  myself  in  the  girandole  which  swung 
downwards  above  the  high  red-silk  piano-back, 
fluted  in  rays.  Einglets  fell  by  each  cheek  and 
there  were  little  ringlets  coming  down  to  my  fore- 
head. I  seemed  as  though  arraigned  before  my 
three  elders,  for  they  had  withdrawn  to  one  end  of 
the  room  and  left  me  alone ;  and  I  remember  Aunt 
Sarah's  back  in  the  girandole  which  seemed  to 

170 


THE  KIND  SAINT 

lean  forward  as  though  she  were  partly  upon  her 
face. 

I  must  confess  that  I  abstracted  myself  during 
Mr.  Burnett's  discourse,  and  was  away  in  spirit  in 
the  convent  playing-fields,  or  anywhere  that  I  could 
imagine  out  of  this  dull  world. 

Aunt  Sarah's  own  maid,  Hepzibah,  had,  I  was 
sure,  been  crossed  in  love,  so  bitter  was  she.  And 
surprising  me  one  day  before  the  glass,  where  I 
looked  at  myself,  wondering  to  find  no  visible  change 
in  my  countenance  because  of  the  dull  months 
since  I  had  left  the  convent,  she  said  with  a  sour 
smile  that  I  might  as  well  be  ill-favoured  as  well- 
favoured  since  no  gentleman  would  ever  come  my 
way  to  see  it.  I  was  provoked  to  a  dignified  retort, 
but  before  I  could  utter  it  she  was  gone ;  and  it 
was  no  use  to  complain  to  Aunt  Sarah,  who  would 
have  told  me  doubtless  that  Hepzibah  was  a  much 
more  necessary  inmate  of  the  house  than  I  was. 

For  as  the  months  passed  without  any  fault  of  my 
own  that  I  could  discover  I  grew  more  and  more 
out  of  favour  with  my  aunt.  I  was  preached  at  and 
prayed  for  every  day ;  and  there  was  not  a  face  in 
the  house  that  did  not  look  condemnation  at  me. 
Even  Fairy  to  whom  I  turned  one  day  for  con- 
solation had  such  a  fit  of  whimpering  and  shaking 
that  I  thought  she  would  have  died,  and  made  haste 

171 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

to  my  room,  because  I  felt  sure  if  Fairy  died 
through  my  fault  my  aunt  would  look  upon  me  as 
a  murderer. 

My  aunt  had  ideas  of  her  own  as  to  how  a  girl 
should  grow  up.  I  lived  with  a  Spartan  plainness, 
being  denied  all  luxuries  and  comforts,  slept  hard 
with  scanty  covering,  washed  in  cold  water,  even 
when  I  had  to  break  the  ice  upon  it,  and  when  I 
would  sit  in  my  room  sat  there  fireless. 

But  what  grieved  me  most  was  that  my  aunt 
would  have  every  minute  of  my  day  accounted  for. 
I  had  great  numbers  of  coarse  woollen  garments 
to  make  for  the  poor,  hideous  in  colour  and  shape 
and  texture.  Often  I  smiled  to  myself  over  the 
benefactions  of  Aunt  Sarah's  unloving  charity,  re- 
membering the  little  garments  of  fine  woollen  and 
linen  we  had  been  used  to  make  at  the  convent 
for  Christmas  babies,  over-delicate  perhaps  for 
their  state  in  life,  yet  not  too  fine  when  one  re- 
membered Whom  they  represented. 

The  work  kept  me  from  my  letter-writing,  a 
thing  Aunt  Sarah  abominated,  and  from  those 
walks  in  the  bleak  garden  which  constituted  all 
my  exercise. 

But  at  least  I  could  not  be  forbidden  to  think : 
and  while    I   sewed   the   shapeless   and  hideous 
garments  I  thought  my  thoughts. 
172 


THE  KIND  SAINT 

Occasionally  there  came  a  letter  from  the  con- 
vent or  the  friends  I  had  made  there.  Aunt  Sarah 
would  watch  my  letters  with  such  a  frowning 
brow  that  I  sometimes  wondered  she  did  not  pre- 
vent their  reaching  me,  until  I  overheard  one  day  a 
scrap  of  conversation  between  her  and  Miss  Mad- 
dox  which  showed  me  that  the  latter  had  urged 
on  her  to  read  and  prevent  my  letters ;  but  Aunt 
Sarah  had  refused.  After  that  I  thought  that  she 
and  I  might  have  been  happy  together  if  it  were 
not  for  the  spite  and  bitterness  of  those  by  whom 
she  was  surrounded. 

It  was  Louise  Duvernay  first  put  it  into  my  head 
that  I  should  pray  for  a  delivery. 

"  Thou  know'st,  petite,"  she  wrote,  "  that  I  have 
grieved  because  my  marriage  had  not  been  ar- 
ranged for,  and  seeing  that  I  am  eighteen  I  should 
soon  enter  on  the  path  of  old  maidenhood.  So  I 
invoked  the  blessed  St.  Joseph.  I  made  a  Novena 
before  his  statue :  and  scarce  is  it  concluded  before 
the  fianc£  arrives.  Such  a  fiance1  t  little  cabbage, 
with  the  most  adorable  little  black  moustache  and 
black  curls,  handsome,  rich,  polite,  ardent.  We 
have  only  spoken  in  the  presence  of  others,  but 
.  .  .  his  eyes  say '  such  things.  I  am  transported 
with  joy  ;  and  as  soon  as  I  am  married  I  shall  give 
a  fine  silver  statue  to  St.  Joseph." 
173 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

What  would  Aunt  Sarah  have  said  to  it?  I 
was  grateful  as  I  hid  away  the  letter  in  a  hollow 
place  I  had  discovered  behind  the  window-frame 
for  that  unexpected  magnanimity  in  her  that 
would  not  permit  her  to  tamper  with  my  letters. 

As  I  stood  tiptoe  on  the  chair  to  reach  my 
hiding-place,  my  fingers  groped  about  for  some- 
thing and  my  cheek  burned  as  though  I  did  some- 
thing to  be  ashamed  of.  I  found  the  thing  I 
wanted,  and  returning  to  earth  with  it  I  stood 
looking  at  it,  an  image  of  indecision. 

It  was  a  little  statue  of  St.  Joseph  which  Mother 
Margaret  had  given  me  when  I  left  the  convent, 
which  I  had  smuggled  in  my  clothes,  and  had  hidden 
from  sight  ever  since,  lest  it  should  provoke  Aunt 
Sarah's  scorn  and  indignation.  It  was  a  cheap 
thing  of  plaster,  roughly  gilt ;  but,  as  I  looked  at 
it,  I  was  attracted  by  the  kindliness  which  perhaps 
I  read  into  the  blurred  lines  of  the  face. 

The  good  St.  Joseph ;  was  he  not  the  patron  of 
happy  married  people  ?  I  fell  on  my  knees,  holding 
the  statue  before  me,  and  prayed  the  Saint  to  send 
me  a  deliverer,  a  kind  husband  who  should  love 
me  and  take  me  away  from  the  place  which  had 
proved  so  unloving  to  me.  I  had  had  my  dreams 
like  other  girls,  perhaps  the  more  for  my  lonely 
life ;  and  as  I  fancied  the  hero  of  my  dreams 


THE  KIND  SAINT 

riding  to  my  deliverance,  my  cheek  burned  and 
my  heart  throbbed.  "  A  young  lover,  dear  Saint," 
I  prayed,  "  and  handsome  and  good.  And  I,  too, 
will  give  thee  a  silver  image." 

I  had  barely  time  to  put  away  the  statue  when 
my  aunt's  step  was  at  my  door ;  and  very  bitter 
she  was  with  me  because  the  little  progress  I  had 
made  with  the  garment  in  hand  proved  my  idle- 
ness. She  threatened  then  that  I  should  sew  with 
her  and  Miss  Maddox,  or  under  Hepzibah's  eye : 
and  at  that  I  trembled  and  burst  into  tears,  pro- 
mising repentance.  Aunt  Sarah  looked  at  me  for 
a  moment  and  then  turned  and  went  out  of  the 
room,  and  I  had  the  strangest  idea  that  I  had  seen 
a  softened  expression  on  her  face  under  the  purple 
cap-ribbons  and  the  hard  grey  curls. 

However  she  was  not  less  harsh  with  me  as 
the  days  went  by,  so  I  supposed  I  was  mistaken. 
Day  after  day  I  made  my  petition  to  St.  Joseph 
till  the  nine  days  were  full,  and  I  confess  I 
was  very  hopeful.  At  the  convent  we  had  a 
simple  faith  in  miracles  as  things  that  happened 
every  day.  If  the  kind  Saint  had  remembered 
Louise,  surely  he  would  not  be  the  less  mindful  of 
me,  even  though  I  was  a  heretic.  But  a  convent 
child  for  all  that;  and  the  convent  was  named 
from  the  Saint. 

175 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

I  had  finished  the  Novena,  and  was  living  out 
the  days  in  a  hopeful  expectancy  when  one  day  I 
was  summoned  to  my  aunt's  parlour  where  there 
sat  together  Mr.  Burnett,  Miss  Maddox  and  her- 
self. I  wondered  as  I  went  in  what  new  sin  I  had 
been  guilty  of,  since  Miss  Maddox  looked  at  me 
with  an  eye  of  hatred ;  but  Aunt  Sarah,  strangely 
enough,  seemed  to  behold  me  with  complacency. 

However  it  was  the  little  man  himself  whose 
aspect  was  strangest  of  all,  for  he  was  flushed  and 
perturbed,  yet  wore  a  smiling,  self-satisfied  air 
which  made  him  more  distasteful  in  my  eyes  than 
when  he  had  been  tragical. 

Aunt  Sarah  motioned  me  to  the  chair  I  remem- 
bered, facing  the  girandole ;  and  then  a  silence  fell 
upon  the  room  during  which  I  had  time  to  discover 
that  Miss  Maddox  had  been  weeping.  She  had 
not  been  kind  to  me,  but  I  pitied  her  out  of  the 
arrogance  of  my  youth;  though  Heaven  knows 
that  youth  had  not  much  to  boast  of.  And  I  hope 
the  arrogance  was  not  unkind. 

"Clarissa,"  began  my  aunt.  "I  have  to  tell 
you  that  a  great  and  unexpected  honour  has  be- 
fallen you.  I  confess  I  did  not  hope  that  you 
would  be  so  favoured,  being,  as  you  have  proved 
yourself  to  be,  giddy  and  fro  ward  and  a  disturbing 
element  in  this>  godly  household,  for  which  I  blame 

176 


THE  KIND  SAINT 

not  you,  child,  so  much  as  the  unhappy  circum- 
stances of  your  upbringing.  However,  all  that 
shall  be  forgotten.  I  am  about  to  commit  you  to 
the  hands  of  one  who  is  far  fitter  to  deal  with  you 
and  to  undo  that  mischief  than  I." 

She  paused  impressively,  and  I  stared  at  her  in 
amazement.  Was  it  possible  I  was  to  be  sent 
away,  to  be  delivered  from  this  odious  imprison- 
ment. I  observed  with  wonder  the  unctuous, 
smiling  face  of  Mr.  Burnett,  the  well-pleased  air 
of  my  aunt,  the  efforts  of  poor  Maddox  to  control 
the  trembling  of  her  lips.  Still  I  was  not  en- 
lightened, but  at  last  the  whole  horrible  truth  was 
sprung  upon  me. 

"Mr.  Burnett  desires  to  make  you  an  offer  of 
marriage,"  said  Aunt  Sarah. 

What  else  she  might  have  said  I  know  not,  for 
I  hurled  myself  from  my  chair  in  a  tempest  of 
passion  and  tears. 

"  How  dare  he  !  how  dare  he !  "  I  said,  choking. 
"  That  old  man  !  I  would  rather  die  first." 

My  aunt's  face  whitened  with  anger,  and  I  saw 
the  dark  blood  rush  over  the  face  of  my  suitor  and 
then  ebb,  leaving  it  steel-grey  and  malignant. 
Only  Maddox  stared  at  me  with  an  incredulous 
surprise  which  had  something  in  it  of  the  air  of 
one  who  has  received  a  reprieve  from  the  gallows. 
12  177 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

Then  I  flung  myself  passionately  from  the  room 
and  up  the  stairs,  and  had  reached  my  own  room 
and  bolted  and  locked  the  door  before  I  collected 
myself  to  listen  for  following  footsteps,  but  there 
were  none. 

I  took  the  statue  of  St.  Joseph  from  its  hiding- 
place  and  rated  it  soundly. 

"Perfidious  Saint!"  said  I.  "Is  it  so  you 
answer  me  ?  with  this  husband  who  is  worse  than 
none.  Go  !  I  cannot  bear  to  look  upon  you  !  " 

With  that  I  hurled  him  from  the  window  which 
stood  wide  open  on  to  the  hard  road  below. 

And  then  a  terrible  thing  happened,  for  I  heard 
a  sharp  cry,  and  rushing  to  the  window  and  looking 
out  I  saw  some  one  below,  some  one  just  striving 
helplessly  to  staunch  the  great  rush  of  blood  from  a 
wound  in  his  forehead  where  the  statue  had  struck 
him.  The  blood  was  all  over  his  face.  He  seemed 
to  be  blinded  with  it.  As  for  the  statue  it  had 
broken  in  fragments  and  lay  barely  distinguishable 
from  the  shards  and  broken  shells  and  sea-sand 
whereof  the  road  was  made. 

While  I  yet  stared  in  horror  I  saw  Mr.  Burnett, 
who  was  leaving  the  house,  come  to  his  aid.  I  with- 
drew my  head  hastily  lest  I  should  be  observed,  and 
then  I  heard  Aunt  Sarah's  voice  and  Hepzibah's, 
and  I  gathered  they  were  bringing  the  injured 

178 


THE  KIND  SAINT 

man  into  the  house.  There  wus  a  commotion 
downstairs  and  a  slamming  of  doors ;  but  I  could 
scarcely  distinguish  the  sounds  because  of  the 
hammering  of  my  heart  in  my  ears.  Surely  never 
was  any  girl  so  frightened  before.  And  after  a 
time  I  heard  a  horse  ride  away,  and  looking  from 
the  window  I  saw  Matthew  on  one  of  the  old 
carriage-horses  and  suspected  that  he  had  gone  to 
fetch  a  doctor. 

I  do  not  know  how  I  got  through  the  day, 
fearing,  I  knew  not  what.  But  some  time  in  the 
afternoon  a  gentle  tapping  came  to  my  door  and 
when  I  opened  it,  palpitating,  there  stood  Miss 
Maddox,  and  her  face  was  not  unfriendly. 

"You  may  come  down,  Clarissa,"  she  said. 
"Your  aunt  has  forgotten  your  offence.  There 
has  been  a  gentleman  wounded  outside  our  doors 
in  some  mysterious  manner,  and  she  is  with  him. 
You  must  be  hungry,  child." 

So  my  greater  transgression  had  not  been  dis- 
covered, might  yet  pass  without  discovery,  since 
a  heavy  rain  had  begun  to  fall  which  would  wash 
the  fragments  of  the  plaster  image  into  the  earth. 

I  followed  her  tiptoe  to  the  dining-room,  where 
I  found  that  she  had  procured  some  food  to  be 
laid  for  me;  and  in  spite  of  my  perturbation  of 
spirit  I  ate  it  greedily. 

179 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

We  were  still  there  when  my  aunt  came  into  the 
room.  She  looked  at  me  with  a  new  mildness 
which  almost  overcame  me. 

"He  is  sleeping,"  she  said.  "And  Dr.  Crabbe 
says  that  if  the  wound  does  not  fester  it  will  do 
well.  He  has  had  a  narrow  escape ;  his  eye  was 
just  spared." 

After  that  I  grew  to  think  that  the  trouble  in 
the  household  had  arisen  from  the  fact  that  we 
were  all  women  together,  and  I  daresay  it  is  often 
so. 

My  aunt  was  always  in  the  sick-room,  and  when, 
summoning  up  courage,  I  crept  to  the  door  with 
an  inquiry  she  looked  at  me  with  eyes  from  which 
the  old  stern  condemnation  had  quite  departed. 

"  Come  in,  child,"  she  said.     "  He  is  asleep." 

We  stood  side  by  side  looking  at  the  young  dark 
head  on  the  pillow.  The  hair  rippled  slightly  as 
though  it  would  have  curled  if  it  had  not  been  so 
close  cropped.  Even  under  the  disfiguring  bandage 
it  was  easy  to  see  that  the  face  was  handsome.  I 
looked  at  him,  troubled  and  stirred  to  the  utmost 
depths  of  my  being.  His  cheek  was  darkly  flushed. 
He  had  a  slight,  dark  moustache  which  did  not 
conceal  the  sweetness  of  his  mouth.  And  to  think 
that  I  had  ail-but  blinded  him  ! 

"  He  is  as  like  my  son  Willie  who  was  killed  at 

180 


THE  KIND  SAINT      \ 

Torres  Vedras  as  though  they  were  twin  brothers," 
said  Aunt  Sarah  in  a  trembling  voice. 

Then  Dr.  Crabbe  came  and  I  was  banished  from 
the  room,  but  I  heard  him  say  to  Aunt  Sarah  that 
there  was  fever  from  the  wound,  and  that  she  had 
better  have  a  woman  to  help  her  nurse  him  and 
Aunt  Sarah's  strange  answer. 

"Hepzibah  will  do  that,"  she  said.  "She 
nursed  my  Willie,  and  we  have  missed  him  sorely 
all  these  dreary  years." 

But  perhaps  it  did  not  seem  so  strange  to  Dr. 
Crabbe  who  was  Aunt  Sarah's  old  friend. 

Another  day  Mr.  Burnett  called,  and  he  and 
Aunt  Sarah  quarrelled  about  her  devotion  to  the 
sick  young  man,  and  because  she  would  not  send 
him  to  a  hospital  or  his  friends.  And  when  he 
was  leaving  the  house  in  a  great  temper  Miss 
Maddox  came  out  from  the  drawing-room  and  per- 
suaded him  to  come  in,  and  fed  him  with  the  hot 
tea  and  buttered  toast  which  were  the  only  things 
that  seemed  to  rejoice  him. 

Now  Aunt  Sarah  under  her  changed  aspect 
touched  me  greatly.  I  came  and  went  in  the  sick- 
room as  I  would,  even  when  the  wound  had  festered, 
and  the  patient  seemed  like  to  die,  and  I  was  the 
most  unhappy  wretch  on  the  planet.  And  after- 
wards when  the  wound  took  a  favourable  turn  she 
181 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

would  talk  to  me  while  the  patient  slept  of  her 
son  who  had  been  killed  gloriously  in  that  old  war. 
We  had  discovered  by  this  time  that  the  young 
stranger  was  of  the  same  noble  profession  of  arms. 
And  ever  I  felt  that  I  ought  to  make  confession  of 
what  I  had  done,  and  would  have  found  courage, 
I  think,  only  that  I  could  not  endure  to  confess 
what  had  caused  my  anger  against  the  poor  Saint. 

But  at  last  the  wound  began  to  heal,  and  then 
when  all  danger  was  past  I  was  seized  with  a 
shyness  of  Captain  Hugo  Errington,  for  that  was 
his  name,  and  nothing  would  induce  me  to  enter 
the  sick-room,  to  meet  the  quiet  gaze  of  his 
eyes. 

While  the  wound  healed  another  old  wound 
was  healing  too,  for  the  sourness  and  gloom  that 
I  had  known  in  my  great-aunt  disappeared  like  the 
snows  that  were  giving  way  before  the  April  sun. 
Her  face  altered  so  that  I  would  not  have  known  it. 
And  the  same  thing  on  a  lesser  degree  happened 
with  old  Hepzibah. 

"  It  seems  as  though  Master  Willie  were  come 
back,  Miss  Clarissa,"  she  said  to  me.  "  Lord  bless 
you,  child,  I  couldn't  bear  that  any  one  should  be 
young,  seeing  how  he  was  taken  in  his  youth." 

And  since  I  had  grown  fond  of  my  aunt  a  thought 
troubled  me  of  how  she  would  bear  it  when  Captain 

182 


THE  KIND  SAINT 

Errington  went  away  and  left  us  a  houseful  of 
lonely  women, — for  old  Matthew  was  not  to  be 
counted  as  a  man ;  and  I  wondered  if  we  would  go 
back  to  our  old  unhappy  ways.  Why,  even 
Maddox  in  these  latter  days  had  grown  comely, 
and  her  face  had  worn  an  open  expression  since 
the  day  when  she  had  defended  Mr.  Burnett  to 
Aunt  Sarah  and  been  answered  with  an  unexpected 
forbearance. 

I  remember  that  it  was  Easter  and  all  the  Lent 
lilies  were  out  in  the  garden,  and  I  coming  in  with 
my  arms  full  of  them  to  decorate  Aunt  Sarah's  little 
parlour  became  suddenly  aware  that  Captain  Erring- 
ton  was  in  the  room.  It  was  the  first  day  he  had 
come  downstairs,  and  I  had  meant  to  make  the 
room  gay  for  his  first  sight  of  it ;  but  I  was  too 
late. 

I  stopped  short  with  the  deepest  sense  of  my 
own  guilt  staining  my  face  with  red.  There  I 
stood,  not  daring  to  lift  my  eyes,  till  Captain 
Errington  came  and  stood  beside  me  and  called 
me  by  my  name. 

"  Clarissa,"  he  said,  and  took  the  daffodils  from 
my  hold  and  laid  them  down,  and  then  led  me  to 
a  couch  where  he  sat  down  beside  me.  "  Clarissa ! 
You  see  I  know  your  name.  I  saw  you  come  and 
go  in  the  sick-room,  even  when  I  lay  with  closed 

183 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

eyes.     How  am  I  to  thank  you  ?    And  why  have 
you  absented  yourself?" 

"You  have  little  enough  to  thank  me  for,"  I 
said,  raising  my  eyes,  but  immediately  lowering 
them  again  because  of  something  I  read  in  his. 

"  It  is  the  kindest  house  in  all  the  world,"  he 
answered,  "  but  none  is  so  kind  as  you." 

Now  at  this  I  was  somewhat  shocked  and  grieved 
for  Aunt  Sarah's  sake,  but  the  next  words  changed 
the  current  of  my  thoughts. 

"  Because,"  he  went  on,  "  that  opportune  missile 
of  yours  was  the  key  that  opened  the  door  of  this 
house  to  me.  Do  you  know  I  had  haunted  the 
place  for  weeks  and  days,  ever  since  I  had  caught 
a  glimpse  of  your  face  where  you  sat  at  the  window 
and  looked  away  over  the  sea-flats  to  the  setting 
sun.  I  loved  you,  Clarissa,  from  the  first  minute 
I  beheld  you.  But  tell  me,  little  one" — his 
hands  were  holding  mine — "  why  did  you  wound 
me?" 

And  after  a  little  while  he  drew  the  story  from 
me,  and  was  greatly  pleased  with  it,  although  the 
telling  had  confused  me  beyond  saying. 

"The  kind  Saint!"  he  said.  "To  think  you 
should  have  so  misunderstood  him  and  maltreated 
him.  And  yet  you  need  not  reproach  yourself, 
since  it  was  so  he  brought  you  your  husband. 

184 


THE  KIND  SAINT 

We  shall  give  him  a  silver  image  for  our  wedding 
Clarissa." 

And  so  we  have  done,  somewhat  to  Aunt  Sarah's 
scandal,  till  she  knew  the  story,  which  I  should  not 
have  dared  to  tell  her,  but  Hugo  may  dare  any- 
thing with  her.  And  when  she  had  heard  it  she 
smiled.  She  is  with  us  now,  since  her  companion, 
Maddox,  has  left  her  and  married  Mr.  Burnett ; 
and  Hepzibah  nurses  our  babies  and  has  grown 
sweet. 


185 


AUNT  BETTY. 

WHEN,  at  thirty-six,  Betty  Egerton  committed 
the  unpardonable  sin  of  marrying  "  a  young  man 
from  the  ironworks,"  her  brother,  Algernon  Eger- 
ton, turned  her  portrait  with  its  face  to  the  wall  in 
his  wife's  boudoir  and  decreed  that  she  should  be 
as  though  she  had  never  existed  to  himself  and  his 
children. 

Betty's  letters  were  returned  to  her  unopened. 
She  sent  two  or  three.  Then  she  seemed  to  ac- 
quiesce in  her  brother's  sentence  upon  her  and 
wrote  no  more.  She  was  always  gentle  and  easily 
rebuffed.  You  had  only  to  turn  round  that  water- 
colour  portrait  and  look  at  the  frightened  brown 
eyes,  the  soft,  pale  cheeks  and  sensitive  mouth  to 
recognise  that  fact. 

Her  name  was  never  mentioned  between  her 
brother  and  his  wife.  But  it  was  not  so  easy  to 
extinguish  her  for  the  children. 

To  the  elder  ones  she  was  a  distinct  memory ; 
to  the  younger,  a  faint,  beneficent  shade. 

186 


AUNT  BETTY 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Egerton  were  engrossed  in  them- 
selves and  each  other  to  the  exclusion  of  the 
children.  Algernon  Egerton  with  his  impossible 
pride,  his  absurd  want  of  business  habits,  his 
capacity  for  muddling  away  the  wreck  of  a  great 
fortune  which  his  ancestors  had  left  him — the 
Egertons  had  never  realised  that  they  were  on  the 
downward  slope  and  could  not  lose  the  habit  of 
living  in  semi-state — might  be  a  ridiculous  sort 
of  Don  Quixote  to  the  hard,  cold  eyes  of  the  outer 
world.  To  his  wife  he  was  an  idol  as  he  had  been 
to  Betty  long  ago. 

His  children  shared  in  the  worship  with  re- 
servations. He  was  a  thoroughly  spoilt  person, 
and  in  his  little  circle  of  adulation  was  not  likely 
to  hear  what  the  outside  world  was  saying  of  him. 
And  in  the  years  when  things  grew  more  and 
more  desperate  with  the  Egertons,  Mrs.  Egerton 
but  adored  her  husband  the  more;  set  herself 
the  more  absolutely  to  see  things  with  his  eyes. 
Doubtless  there  was  the  "  passionate  duty  "  of  the 
poet  in  her  love,  for  she  was  by  nature  a  clear- 
sighted little  woman  enough ;  and  if  her  husband's 
eyes  were  filled  with  gold  dust  she  was  not  the  one 
not  to  share  his  blindness. 

In  the  absorption  of  the  couple  in  each  other 
the  children  were  left  out  in  the  cold.  When  they 

187 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

were  little  they  had  not  felt  it ;  there  was  Aunt 
Betty  to  whom  they  were  so  many  small  sons  of 
her  sky. 

Tell  the  children  to  forget  Aunt  Betty !  Kub- 
bish!  Why  every  book  in  the  tall  school-room 
book-case  had  its  tender  inscription :  "  To  my  little 
heart,  Otho,  from  Aunt  Betty";  "To  my  pet, 
Laura,  from  Aunt  Betty,"  and  so  on. 

There  was  a  dolls'  house  in  the  school-room,  the 
ownership  of  which  would  keep  any  girl-child  from 
feeling  lonely.  It  was  more  than  half-way  up  the 
school-room  walls,  and  it  was  furnished  with  all 
the  modern  conveniences  as  they  were  understood 
in  the  sixties.  Time  was  when  Laura  could  curl 
herself  up  in  the  rooms.  It  had  been  Aunt  Betty's 
gift.  So  had  the  regiment  of  dolls  who  now  oc- 
cupied it,  and  turned  it  into  a  sort  of  conventual 
establishment. 

The  great  rocking-horse  had  been  Aunt  Betty's 
gift  to  Otho.  The  engine  and  train  she  had  given 
to  Marcus.  The  French  doll  with  the  elaborate 
trousseau  had  been  brought  home  from  Paris  to 
Clotilde. 

There  had  been  years  and  years  after  Aunt 
Betty's  beneficent  presence  had  disappeared  from 
the  horizon  when  the  children  were  obliged  to 
comfort  themselves  with  her  gifts,  for  as  times 

188 


AUNT  BETTY 

grew  more  and  more  pinched  at  C1ombe  Egerton 
the  children  were  somewhat  neglected. 

There  was  no  doubt  at  all  that  Algernon  Egerton 
was  very  much  to  blame  in  the  way  he  made  ducks 
and  drakes  of  what  was  left  to  him.  In  the  end  he 
made  frantic  efforts  to  retrieve  his  position,  taking 
shares  in  this  and  that  company  which  promised 
impossible  profits,  only  to  find  that  he  had  been 
gulled  like  many  another,  and  that  the  company 
promoter  had  swallowed  up  his  scanty  thousands. 

At  last  the  day  came  when  Combe  Egerton  had 
to  be  left  behind  for  ever.  The  house  amid  its 
beautiful  hills  and  hollows  was  to  its  neck  in  debt. 
Even  when  it  was  sold  there  would  be  hardly  any- 
thing left  for  the  Egertons.  But  when  they  turned 
their  backs  on  the  place  it  was  doubtful  if  any  one 
of  them  cared  greatly  about  the  details  of  their 
trouble.  To  have  lost  Combe  Egerton  was  enough. 
It  had  broken  their  hearts,  the  children  said.  Their 
elders  said  nothing,  huddling  themselves  and  their 
belongings  away  to  London  as  though  it  was  a 
secret  flight;  but  Mrs.  Egerton,  looking  at  her 
husband's  face,  saw  death  there;  and  her  own, 
faithful  mirror  as  it  had  ever  been,  reflected  his. 

They  had  taken  little  away  with  them;  but 
among  the  little  were  Aunt  Betty's  books  and  the 
nursery  book-case,  the  doll's  house,  the  rocking- 

189 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

horse  and  engine.  Clotilde  wrapped  away  among 
her  scanty  belongings  the  French  doll  and  her 
trousseau.  Poor  Mrs.  Egerton,  in  a  cloud  of 
disaster,  hardly  knew  what  they  took  and  what 
they  left.  At  the  last,  Laura,  who  remembered 
Aunt  Betty  best  of  all,  ran  downstairs,  unhooked 
the  water-colour  portrait  from  the  wall  and  packed 
it  in  her  trunk  between  her  dresses. 

The  Egertons  had  fallen  incredibly  low.  They 
had  not  realised  it  till  they  drove  up  in  the  cold 
light  of  a  winter  early  afternoon  to  the  little  house 
in  a  London  suburb  which  had  been  taken  for  them, 
by  a  distant  relative  of  Mrs.  Egerton's,  who  had 
been  coldly  compassionate  of  his  kinswoman  and 
her  children,  while  contemptuous  in  his  heart  of 
Algernon's  pretensions  and  folly. 

Mrs.  Egerton  had  pleaded  hard  for  a  country 
cottage ;  but  the  man's  face  had  been  adamant. 

"  Those  great  boys  and  girls  must  go  to  school," 
he  said.  "  They  will  have  to  earn  your  bread  as 
well  as  their  own  presently.  If  the  elder  lad  does 
creditably  I  can  get  him  a  stool  in  an  office.  The 
girls  had  better  learn  dressmaking  or  go  into  the 
post-office.  You  can't  give  them  schooling  in 
the  country.  You'd  better  look  realities  in  the 
face." 

By  this  time  poor  Mrs.  Egerton's  pride  had  been 

190 


AUNT  BETTY 

swept  away  in  a  flood  of  sorrow.  If  she  could  only 
keep  these  terrible  realities  from  Algernon  as  long 
as  he  lived ! 

As  long  as  he  lived  !  She  could  see  by  her  kins- 
man's manner  as  well  as  his  speech  that  he  thought 
Algernon's  days  were  numbered.  And  a  good 
riddance  too,  he  would  have  said,  no  doubt.  She 
put  the  thought  away  as  intolerable.  That  any 
one  could  think  she  would  be  better  without 
Algernon.  Algernon,  who  even  yet,  if  he  would 
only  stay  with  her,  could  make  life  beautiful  for 
her! 

There  was  no  fog  the  day  they  entered  into 
possession  of  106  Cremona  Gardens,  nothing  so 
merciful  to  hide  the  dwindling  perspective  of 
hideous  little  red-brick  houses,  some  two  hundred 
of  them  absolutely  the  same,  with  grotesque  little 
touches  of  pretentiousness  that  made  them  more 
intolerable.  The  Egertons  shut  up  in  beautiful 
Combe  Egerton  had  never  dreamt  there  could  be 
such  places  in  all  the  world.  The  first  sight  of  it 
turned  the  boys  dark  and  silent,  made  the  girls 
pale  and  anxious. 

They  had  hardly  arrived  when  Algernon  took  to 
his  bed. 

"  You  should  have  let  me  die  at  home,"  he  said 
to  his  wife,  as  he  turned  his  face  to  the  wall. 

191 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

The  next  day  the  fog  was  down  on  them  and  he 
was  strangling  for  breath. 

Mrs.  Egerton,  in  a  panic,  sent  for  the  nearest 
doctor.  He  was  an  over-worked,  ill-paid,  chronic- 
ally tired  and  irritated  man. 

"If  you  can  get  him  to  Algiers,"  he  said, 
"you'll  save  his  life.  He'll  never  last  out  the 
winter  here.  A  clay  soil  and  a  jerry-built  house. 
What  were  you  thinking  of  to  bring  him  here  ?  " 

After  he  had  gone  Mrs.  Egerton  stood  looking 
after  him  from  the  stair-head  like  one  stupefied. 
Presently  she  opened  her  purse  and  looked  into  it. 
It  contained  exactly  thirteen  shillings  and  two-pence 
which  had  to  do  for  her  housekeeping  till  Saturday. 
This  was  Wednesday.  On  Saturday  three  pounds 
would  come  to  her  from  the  relative  who  was  en- 
gaged in  unravelling  the  tangled  skein  of  the  Eger- 
tons'  affairs,  and  three  pounds  every  succeeding 
Saturday.  Oh,  to  think  how  they  had  spent  money 
in  the  old  days  at  Combe  Egerton,  the  carriages  and 
horses,  the  senseless  luxury,  the  troops  of  idle 
servants  !  And  now  Algernon  must  die  for  want  of 
a  little  money ! 

She  went  back  into  the  room  noiselessly.  All  sorts 
of  wild  projects  were  chasing  each  other  through 
her  brain.  But  there  was  no  trace  of  her  perturba- 
tion on  her  face  as  she  approached  the  sick  bed. 

192 


AUNT  BETTY 

Algernon  Egerton  was  lying  back  among  his 
pillows,  worn  out  by  the  struggle  for  breath. 

"I  haven't  .  .  .  been  ...  so  bad,"  he  said, 
panting,  ' '  since  I  ...  had  pneumonia  at  fifteen. 
Betty  .  .  .  nursed  me  through  it." 

The  old  long-disused  name  startled  Mrs.  Egerton 
violently  for  an  instant.  Later,  when  he  had  fallen 
into  a  tired  sleep,  and  she  sought  her  children  in  a 
forlorn  reaching  after  comfort,  she  found  them  in  a 
room  at  the  back  which  they  had  made  as  much  as 
possible  a  replica  of  the  old  school-room. 

They  had  lamp-light  there,  and  a  tiny  fire  in  the 
grate,  and  they  were  all  busy  setting  things  to 
rights  in  the  room.  Bright  as  it  was  with  fire  and 
lamp-light  a  thin  curtain  of  fog  hung  in  the  room 
and  wavered  to  and  fro  with  the  opening  of  the 
door.  Outside  in  the  passage  it  was  colder,  more 
choking.  She  had  left  it  behind  in  the  sick  man's 
room,  despite  all  the  efforts  of  a  bronchitis  kettle 
to  conquer  it  or  disguise  it. 

Laura  was  putting  up  the  books  in  the  book- 
case. If  they  had  only  known  it  there  were  first 
editions  among  them  of  famous  children's  books 
of  the  sixties  which  were  worth  a  good  deal  of 
money.  But  when  did  an  Egerton  know  anything 
to  his  or  her  worldly  advantage  ? 

Mrs.  Egerton  glanced  towards  the  fire-place  and 
13  193 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

started  at  what  she  saw.  Why  it  was  fifteen 
years  ago  since  she  had  seen  Betty's  picture.  It 
was  a  pretty  thing,  with  the  brown  ringlets  falling 
about  the  face,  the  hands  clasped  in  the  old- 
fashioned  silk  lap,  the  whole  air  so  gentle  and 
appealing. 

"  I  thought  it  was  time  Aunt  Betty  should  be 
forgiven,"  said  Laura,  prepared  to  defend  her- 
self. Laura  was  now  nineteen  and  very  like  her 
Aunt  Betty. 

Mrs.  Egerton  came  a  little  nearer  and  peered  at 
the  picture. 

"  She  would  never  have  let  us  be  in  such  straits," 
she  said,  "  I  wonder  if  she  is  living." 

"  You  don't  know,  Mamma  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  made  any  inquiries.  Your  father 
did  not  wish  it." 

"I  wish  she  would  come  back.  Dear  Aunt 
Betty,  how  happy  she  made  us  when  we  were 
little  ones." 

Mrs.  Egerton  did  not  speak.  She  was  gazing 
intently  at  the  portrait. 

"  She  adored  your  father,"  she  said  at  last. 

"What  was  her  name,  Mamma — her  married 
name,  I  mean  ?  "  asked  Otho,  who  had  come  over 
and  stood  at  his  mother's  side. 

f'I  believe  it  was  Kobinson,  John  Bobinson, 
194 


AUNT  BETTY 

I  think,  was  the  young  man's  name,  but  I  am  not 
sure.  Your  father  would  not  let  it  be  spoken  of. 
It  was  something  common  and  insignificant  like 
that.  I  think  Betty  must  be  dead.  I  am  greatly 
afraid  Betty  is  dead.  I  daresay  if  she  lives  she 
is  poor  enough,  perhaps  as  poor  as  we  are.  She 
brought  six  thousand  pounds  to  that  young  man. 
I  don't  suppose  he  made  any  good  use  of  it.  It 
was  a  little  fortune  left  her  by  her  godmother. 
Otherwise  she  depended  on  us.  Yes ;  I  am  sure 
she  would  be  poor.  Betty  always  gave  away  with 
both  hands." 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  Mamma?"  asked 
the  tall  lad. 

Mrs.  Egerton  burst  into  tears. 

"Your  father  is  very  ill,  children.  The  doctor 
says  he  will  die  unless  he  can  go  to  Algiers.  As 
though  people  in  Cremona  Gardens  ever  went  to 
Algiers.  Betty  would  never  have  let  him  die. 
Betty  worshipped  her  brother." 

A  gust  of  wind  blew  open  the  ill-fitting  door. 
Through  the  quietness  of  the  house  there  sounded 
a  single  knock  on  the  hall-door. 

"It  is  some  one  for  money,"  said  Mrs.  Egerton 
in  a  panic,  "  and  I  have  only  thirteen  and  two 
pence." 

Qtho  went  over  and  closed  the  door,  as  the  stout 
W 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

charwoman  who  was  helping  in  the  house  undid 
the  street  door. 

In  a  second  they  heard  her  heavy  steps  ascend- 
ing. Lighter  steps  followed  and  a  swishing  of  silk. 
An  expectant  pause  fell  over  the  group.  The  door 
was  opened  by  the  charwoman. 

"  There's  a  lady,"  she  began. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,"  said  some  one,  pushing  by  her 
into  the  room,  "I  couldn't  wait.  You're  not 
going  to  turn  away  from  me,  are  you  ?  We  only 
found  out  when  we  saw  that  Combe  Egerton  was 
in  the  market.  And  we  hurried  home — we  were  at 
Salsomaggiore — and  tracked  you  here.  And,  oh, 
are  these  my  boys  and  girls  ?  And  how  is  Al- 
gernon ?  " 

A  little  pale  lady  in  sables  to  her  feet  was  hug- 
ging Mrs.  Egerton  to  her  breast,  and  pouring  out 
all  this  explanation  disjointedly.  The  charwoman 
stood  in  the  door  watching  the  scene  with  a  be- 
nevolent grin.  No  one  noticed  her.  The  young 
Egertons  were  clustering  up  to  the  strange  lady. 
Something  remembered  from  long  ago  ;  something 
warm  and  home-like  and  loving  had  entered  the 
room  with  those  silks  and  sables.  It  was  Aunt 
Betty,  it  must  be  Aunt  Betty.  No  one  else  could 
carry  that  air  with  her. 

When  she  had  done  hugging  their  mother  she, 
196 


AUNT  BETTY 

turned  and  put  out  her  arms  to  them.  With  a 
shout  Otho  was  into  them,  as  he  had  been  sixteen 
or  seventeen  years  ago.  She  was  hugging  them 
all  by  turns,  and  crying  over  them,  and  asking 
in  the  intervals  for  Algernon. 

"You  have  come  in  the  nick  of  time,  Betty," 
said  Mrs.  Egerton  amid  her  tears.  "  Algernon 
is  dying  because  we  have  no  money  to  take  him 
to  the  South.  He  has  just  spoken  of  you,  how 
you  nursed  him  through  pneumonia  when  he  was 
a  boy." 

"  Ah  "  cried  Aunt  Betty.  "  I  was  wrong  to  stay 
away  so  long.  I  might  have  known  he  had  for- 
given me.  Let  me  see  him.  Oh,  indeed,  he  won't 
die  for  want  of  the  South,  or  anything  his  old 
Betty  can  give  him." 

"  He  is  asleep.  You  shall  see  him  the  instant 
he  awakes.  But  tell  us,  Betty,  your  husband  .  .  . 
these — "  Mrs.  Egerton  touched  the  sables — "you 
dress  like  a  rich  woman." 

"And  so  I  am.  John  is  a  very  rich  man. 
What !  didn't  you  know  ?  He  is  in  Parliament. 
I  thought  you  must  have  known.  He  is  the  best 
husband  in  the  world.  *  Do  what  you  like  with 
it,  my  girl,'  he  said,  only  this  morning.  '  I'd  never 
have  been  the  man  I  am,  only  for  you.  And  your 
six  thousand  gave  us  the  start.'  I  left  him  just 

197 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

starting  off  to  buy  Combe  Egerton  ...  for  me. 
To  think  it  should  fall  to  us  to  buy  it." 

"You  have  children?" 

"Neither  chick  nor  child.  I  always  had  these 
in  my  memory.  I  waited  and  waited  for  Algernon 
to  call  me  back.  Oh,  children,  how  I  have  missed 
you!" 

11  How  we  have  missed  you !  "  cried  the  boys  and 
girls  in  chorus. 

11  And  to  think  you  had  me  set  up  there," — she 
nodded  at  the  portrait.  "  And  the  doll's  house,  and 
the  rocking  horse.  Oh  dear,  oh  dear!  we  must 
find  bigger  rooms  for  them.  I  have  a  great  house 
at  Hampstead.  Oh,  room  for  all  of  you  ten  times 
over  !  It  has  been  aching  for  you  these  half-dozen 
years  back,  as  my  heart  has  been  all  these  years. 
What  a  home-coming !  I  want  to  see  Algernon 
now.  Oh,  Alice,  can't  I  carry  him  off  now,  as  soon 
as  he  can  be  dressed,  to  Hampstead  ?  There  is  no 
fog  there  ;  and  my  carriage  is  at  the  door.  These 
children  can  follow  in  hansoms.  You  are  never 
coming  back  here  again." 

Aunt  Betty  swept  them  off  their  feet.  From 
the  moment  she  took  her  brother  into  her  arms 
it  was  all  settled  between  them.  They  were  hers 
henceforth.  Alice  must  take  Algernon  off  to  the 
South  at  once ;  but  the  children  were  hers,  and 

198 


AUNT  BETTY 

were  to  keep  her  company  at  Hampstead  through 
the  winter  till  they  could  all  go  back  to  Combe 
Egerton.  All  their  futures  were  in  her  hands, 
such  soft,  bountiful,  giving  hands. 

"It  is  just  as  I  often  dreamt,"  said  Clotilde, 
"  that  Aunt  Betty  had  come,  and  everything  was 
heavenly." 

In  her  rapture  Clotilde  had  forgotten  that  she 
was  fifteen,  and  had  taken  to  nursing  Aunt  Betty's 
French  doll. 

And  after  all  Aunt  Betty  never  had  the  pain 
of  knowing  how  for  all  those  years  her  portrait 
had  hung  with  its  face  to  the  wall.  The  date  of 
Algernon's  forgiveness  was  mercifully  indefinite. 
Her  one  regret  was  for  the  wasted  years  in  which 
she  might  have  come  and  did  not. 


199 


PEINCESS  MOLLY. 

THERE  had  originally  been  three  of  the  Misses 
Tyrawley,  but  in  course  of  time  Miss  Jemima,  who 
was  the  youngest,  and  had  fair  ringlets  and  a  pretty 
complexion,  married  the  village  doctor.  It  was  a 
thing  that  Miss  Bella  or  Miss  Georgie  would  never 
have  done ;  but  they  were  patient  with  Jemima. 
She  was  so  much  younger  than  they  and  not  at  all 
cut  out  for  spinster  hood. 

Jemima  had  only  laughed  at  their  claim  to  be 
remote  cousins  of  the  great  family  at  the  castle.1 
What  good  did  it  ever  do  them?  asked  Jemima. 
The  Earl  and  Countess  drove  by  them  in  splendid 
carriages  and  never  took  any  notice  of  them,  perhaps 
hardly  knew  of  their  existence.  What  could  Bella 
and  Georgie  find  to  be  proud  of  in  claiming  kin- 
ship with  those  haughty  people  ? 

Holding  such  views  it  was  not  surprising  that 
Jemima  should  have  married  Tom  Gray,  whose 
father  kept  the  general  shop  at  Ballymace.  To  be 
sure  the  marriage  connected  the  Misses  Tyrawley 


PEINCESS  MOLLY 

with  shopkeepers  and  farmers  all  round  the  country ; 
and  that  was  a  bitter  pill  for  the  proud  spinsters. 
However,  they  swallowed  it  for  Jemima's  sake,  and 
because  they  were  not  without  a  grain  of  common 
sense  for  all  their  fantastic  pride  and  delicacy. 
They  brought  themselves  to  be  quite  friendly  with 
Tom  Gray.  The  little  man  used  to  make  jokes 
about  it  to  his  Jemima,  but  he  behaved  very  well 
when  he  was  with  his  sisters-in-law. 

In  time  he  had  his  reward,  for  Miss  Bella  said 
to  Miss  Georgie  that  Tom  Gray  was  a  gentleman 
in  spite  of  that  stinging  memory  of  him  driving 
round  in  a  donkey-cart  to  deliver  the  groceries. 
Miss  Georgie  repeated  the  speech  delightedly  to 
Mrs.  Gray,  and  Mrs.  Gray  repeated  it,  with  soft 
bursts  of  laughter,  to  her  Tom. 

"I  knew  it,"  he  said,  slapping  his  knee.  "I 
never  looked  in  Bella's  eye  that  I  didn't  see  the  ass 
and  cart,  and  myself  sitting  on  top  of  a  sack  of 
potatoes  with  my  hair  sticking  out  through  a  hole 
in  the  caubeen.  But  for  all  that  Bella's  the  right 
sort  and  so  is  Georgie.  There  aren't  many  of  the 
right  sort  in  the  world,  Jem ;  but  your  sisters  are 
of  the  few." 

They  proved  themselves  of  the  right  sort  pre- 
sently, when  Tom  Gray  killed  himself  doctoring  and 
nursing — aye  and  burying — typhus  patients  over 

201 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

in  Iniscarrig ;  and  Jemima  brought  her  fifth  child 
into  the  world  a  month  after  Tom  was  under  the 
sod  and  slipped  away  through  the  open  door  into  the 
world  that  held  Tom  before  any  one  could  bid  her 
stay. 

It  was  no  easy  task  to  the  two  elderly  spinsters — 
there  had  been  a  good  fifteen  years  between  Georgie 
and  Jemima — to  take  charge  of  five  children  and 
one  of  them  newly-born.  However  they  didn't  stop 
to  think  about  it.  There  was  no  one  else  to  take 
the  children.  Tom's  father  had  gone  bankrupt  and 
had  lived  out  the  last  years  of  his  life  on  the  help 
his  son  was  able  to  give  him.  Tom  hadn't  left  a 
penny.  The  sale  of  his  few  possessions  barely 
sufficed  to  pay  his  debts. 

Of  course  it  meant  a  complete  alteration  in  the 
way  of  life  at  the  cottage,  but  the  children's  aunts 
never  grumbled.  The  tiny  income  which  had 
barely  sufficed  the  two  elderly  ladies  must  now  be 
made  to  provide  for  five  healthy  children  as  well. 
For  the  children  throve ;  despite  the  inexperience 
of  his  nurses  even  the  newly-born  one  throve.  To 
be  sure  they  had  a  cow  to  themselves  at  the  cottage 
and  they  owned  the  paddock  on  which  she  fed. 
Miss  Georgie  kept  fowls,  so  there  were  new-laid 
eggs.  And  the  cottage  garden  was  always  full  of 
vegetables  and  fruit. 

202 


PEINCESS  MOLLY 

Still,  with  all  these  aids  the  income  was  too  at- 
tenuated to  take  in  the  five  additional  members  of 
the  family,  to  say  nothing  of  Bob,  Dr.  Gray's  Irish 
terrier,  with  any  degree  of  comfort ! 

Something  had  to  be  done,  and  in  these  circum- 
stances Miss  Bella  did  the  last  thing  any  one  in 
the  world  would  have  expected  her  to  do — she 
opened  a  shop.  That  odd  streak  of  common  sense 
in  her  suggested  to  her  that  the  village  had  no 
shop,  except  the  public-house,  which  belonged  to  a 
cousin  of  Tom  Gray's,  and  one  or  two  cottages 
where  bull's-eyes  and  sugar-sticks  and  farthing 
dips  and  onions  and  apples  and  oranges  were  to  be 
seen  in  the  little  windows. 

Miss  Bella  planned  out  her  shop  and  had  it  built 
by  Larry  Conroy,  the  handy-man  of  the  neighbour- 
hood. 

The  cottage  was  quite  away  from  the  village. 
It  was  on  the  side  of  a  green  little-frequented  road 
which  lost  itself  in  a  wood  farther  on.  Behind 
the  cottage,  its  orchard,  garden  and  paddock,  the 
ground  fell  steeply  away  to  a  delightful  valley 
through  which  a  little  river  ran.  The  cottage  had 
a  pretty  verandah  in  front  of  it,  glazed  above,  and 
a  big  bush  of  heliotrope  and  some  climbing  rose 
bushes  covered  its  walls  and  made  the  little  rooms 
inside  dim  and  sweet. 

203 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

These  rooms  had  been  something  of  fairyland  to 
the  children  when  they  had  come  there  from  the 
square,  red-brick,  commonplace  house  which  had 
been  their  home.  It  was  such  a  little  nest  of 
flowery,  bowery  rooms,  full  of  such  delightful  things. 

There  was  a  dolls'  house  that  had  belonged  to 
their  great-grandmother  into  which  a  child  could 
creep.  There  were  the  aunt's  work-boxes  and 
writing-desks,  and  work-tables,  with  a  row  of  little 
satin-covered  receptacles  around  a  deep  pocket  of 
scarlet  silk.  There  were  shell  boxes  and  cardboard 
houses  and  glass  balls  with  snowstorms  inside  them 
if  you  gave  them  a  shake.  In  fact  there  was  no 
end  to  the  delightful  things. 

The  children  were  perfectly  happy  at  the  cottage, 
"  But,"  said  Miss  Bella,  with  a  terrible  frown  at 
Miss  Georgie — "  every  day  their  appetite  increases. 
Wait  till  little  Owen  is  on  the  baker's  list !  And 
already  Kathleen  eats  nearly  as  much  as  the  elder 
children.  I'm  not  going  to  starve  them,  and  we're 
not  going  to  starve  ourselves,  because  we  come  of 
a  good  family.  I  tell  you  that  plainly,  Georgie, 
my  woman." 

That  was  when  she  was  about  to  spring  on 
Georgie  the  project  of  the  shop.  Not  that  Georgie 
ever  thought  of  disputing  Bella's  will,  or  the  right- 
ness  of  Bella's  views  about  anything.  But  when 

204 


£BINCESS  MOLLY 

she  seemed  to  accept  the  shop  too  eagerly,  out  of 
loyalty  to  her  sister,  Bella  was  the  one  to  snub  her, 
asking  her  sardonically  if  she  supposed  the  Tyraw- 
leys  had  always  kept  village  shops. 

Larry  Conroy  was  an  artist,  although  very  often 
a  rather  muddled  one ;  and  the  shop  he  built  for 
Miss  Bella  was  a  triumph  of  artistry.  It  was  built 
of  wood,  and  had  a  delightful  window  of  many 
panes,  with  a  little  door  and  a  little  bell.  Inside 
it  was  a  maze  of  drawers  and  pigeon-holes  and 
all  manner  of  receptacles,  with  little  white  china 
labels  on  all  the  drawers;  and  it  said  much  for 
Larry's  resource  that  he  had  been  able  to  obtain 
these.  When  the  shop  was  finished,  and  the  shin- 
ing scales  stood  on  the  little  white  counter,  the 
children  clapped  their  hands  in  delight.  It  was 
like  an  enlarged  toy.  So  Larry  Conroy  had  seen 
it  in  his  artistic  vision,  a  shop  of  toyland,  not  a 
common  everyday  shop. 

Larry  had  built  the  verandah  over  the  cottage. 
When  he  had  added  a  little  seat  under  the  window 
for  the  customers  to  sit  on  while  they  waited — 
for  the  shop  hardly  allowed  for  customers  to  step 
inside — so  far  from  detracting  from  the  prettiness 
of  the  cottage  the  shop  added  to  it. 

The  villagers  were  very  glad  of  the  new  shop, 
which  was  soon  doing  quite  a  flourishing  little 

205 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

trade.  While  Miss  Bella  concerned  herself  with 
it,  Miss  Georgie  took  charge  of  the  fowls  and  the 
garden  and  the  dairy.  Soon  the  elder  children 
were  able  to  help,  and  Miss  Georgie  could  employ 
a  big  boy  to  dig  or  to  clean  out  the  cow-house  or 
do  anything  she  herself  was  not  equal  to  doing. 
In  time  they  could  have  a  girl  from  the  village  for 
rough  work. 

Altogether  the  Misses  Tyrawley  managed  to 
keep  up  the  small  refinements  of  life,  without 
which  life  would  have  been  intolerable  to  them,  if 
they  were  shopkeepers. 

Should  you  pass  the  cottage  of  an  evening,  you 
might  see  the  scarlet-shaded  lamp  illumining  the 
heads  of  the  children  clustered  about  the  fire,  with 
their  books  or  their  sewing.  Miss  Bella  might  be 
reading  to  them  or  Miss  Georgie  playing  on  the  old 
piano.  You  would  know  that  it  was  the  home  of 
gentlefolk  from  that  one  glimpse. 

There  was  nothing  Miss  Bella  so  much  dreaded 
as  that  the  children  should  go  back  to  the  class 
from  which  their  father  had  sprung.  Her  dread 
was  never  revealed  in  the  slighest  degree  ;  but  she 
strove  to  set  up  barriers  for  the  children  by  the 
thousand  and  one  little  refinements  of  habit  and 
thought  to  which  she  accustomed  them. 

There  was  no  playing  with  the  village  children. 


PEINCESS  MOLLY 

Miss  Bella  wished  her  children  to  be  kind  and 
courteous  to  every  one,  but  since  they  could  not 
have  friends  and  playmates  on  an  equality  with 
themselves,  to  find  their  happiness  at  home.  And 
this  was  easy  enough  since  the  village  was  some 
considerable  distance  away  ;  and  the  wood  and  the 
valley  held  a  very  fairyland  of  delights  for  the 
children. 

When  Molly  the  eldest  was  sixteen,  she  went  to 
the  convent  school.  Molly  was  blue-eyed  and 
fair-skinned,  soft  as  a  white  rose-leaf,  with  magni- 
ficent blue-black  hair. 

She  was  full  of  dreams  and  fancies;  and  her 
Aunt  Bella  felt  pretty  certain  that  Molly  would 
not  fling  herself  into  unconsidered  friendship  with 
any  of  the  school-children,  who  were  sure  to  be  un- 
like herself. 

Molly  indeed  attached  herself  to  a  nun  and  was 
ardent  about  her,  making  her  the  centre  of  all  her 
romantic  dreams.  And  after  two  or  three  years 
had  passed,  and  Molly  had  learnt  all  the  accom- 
plishments the  convent  could  impart,  Molly's  nun, 
Sister  Genevieve,  who  had  been  a  great  lady  out 
in  the  world,  wrote  to  her  sister  who  was  ambas- 
sadress at  the  Eussian  Court  to  find  an  employment 
for  Molly. 

The  employment  was  not  long  in  coming. 
207 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

Molly  went  off  to  Kussia  as  English  governess  to 
three  little  boys. 

Her  salary  sounded  fabulous  to  her  aunts. 
When  presently  she  could  write  home  and  tell 
them  all  about  it,  it  seemed  to  them,  as  it  seemed 
to  Molly,  that  the  luxury  of  her  surroundings  was 
almost  incredible.  She  was  learning  to  ride  so 
that  she  might  ride  with  her  pupils  ;  she  was  to 
have  a  horse  of  her  own.  She  had  a  little  suite  of 
apartments  of  her  own.  The  life  was  a  mixture 
of  almost  barbaric  splendour  and  luxurious  refine- 
ment. The  father  of  the  children,  whom  Molly 
wrote  of  as  the  Prince,  treated  Molly  with  the 
most  wonderful  consideration. 

When  Molly  arrived  the  winter  had  just  broken 
up  into  the  sudden  miraculous  spring.  Molly  had 
no  words  for  the  beauty  of  it.  She  was  happy, — to 
be  sure  she  missed  them  dreadfully,  but  she  was 
happy. 

From  time  to  time  money  and  gifts  of  all  kinds 
came  from  Molly,  who  was  always  the  giving  sort. 
The  children  became  acquainted  with  all  manner 
of  strange  Eussian  sweetmeats,  as  the  aunts  with 
strange  Eussian  delicacies  and  condiments.  Beauti- 
ful enamels,  beautiful  embroideries  came  home. 
Molly's  generosity  perturbed  her  aunts,  lest  she 
impoverished  herself  to  make  them  gifts, 


PKINCESS  MOLLY 

For  a  time  Molly's  letters  wero  heart-whole; 
hardly  one  came  that  did  not  speak  of  a  time  when 
she  should  come  home  to  see  them.  Then  the 
letters  became  more  infrequent ;  there  was  no- 
thing in  them  about  coming  home.  And  then 
quite  suddenly  they  ceased. 

Miss  Bella  wrote  many  times,  before  she  re- 
ceived a  scrap  of  a  letter : — 

"  Molly  is  well  and  happy,  but  she  asks  you  to 
forget  her.  It  is  necessary  for  her  happiness  that 
she  should  break  with  her  old  life." 

The  letter  contained  a  money-order  for  quite  a 
large  sum. 

When  Miss  Bella  had  read  the  letter  she  handed 
it  to  Miss  Georgie  and  her  eyes  flashed. 

"  What  do  you  make  of  it,  sister?  "  the  weaker 
Georgie  asked  trembling. 

"  She  has  made  a  fine  marriage  and  she  is 
ashamed  of  us,"  said  Miss  Bella  grimly.  "Let  us 
talk  of  Molly  no  more.  The  Molly  we  loved  is 
dead." 

After  that  she  did  not  talk  of  Molly.  She  dis- 
couraged the  children's  talk  of  her.  If  any  one 
asked  after  Molly  she  replied  that  she  was  married 
and  quite  well  and  happy.  She  felt  Molly's  de- 
sertion like  an  actual  wound  in  her  breast,  and 
as  time  passed  the  wound,  although  it  throbbed 

14  209 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

less,  never  healed.  Molly  had  been  her  darling ; 
she  had  always  believed  in  Molly's  true  heart. 
And  Molly  to  cut  off  the  old  ties  coldly  and  care- 
lessly! It  was  necessary  for  Molly's  happiness 
that  she  should  be  forgotten.  Well,  she  would 
do  nothing  to  recall  the  old  home  and  the  old 
love  to  Molly.  She  would  seem  at  least  to  forget 
her. 

She  put  away  Molly's  portrait  and  all  the  little 
things  that  reminded  her  of  her.  But  she  was 
not  allowed  to  forget  her,  nor  after  that  first  pause 
did  the  cessation  of  Molly's  letters  give  the  village 
something  to  gossip  about.  Four  times  a  year  an 
envelope  came  addressed  in  Molly's  hand-writing. 
The  envelope  contained  every  time  Bank  of  Eng- 
land notes  for  fifty  pounds. 

In  her  first  pain  and  resentment  Miss  Bella 
vowed  that  they  would  have  none  of  Molly's 
money.  She  put  the  notes  aside,  turning  an  ap- 
parently deaf  ear  to  her  sister's  suggestion  of  how 
useful  they  would  be.  Why  should  not  Owen  go 
to  a  good  school,  and  perhaps  later  find  his  way  to 
Dublin  University? 

Ah,  that  touched  a  tender  spot  with  Miss  Bella. 
Owen  was  a  clever  boy,  as  clever  and  imaginative 
as  Molly  herself.  More,  Owen  had  been  sought 
out  by  his  father's  first  cousin,  the  owner  of  a 

210 


PBINCESS  MOLLY 

prosperous  shop  in  Kilcolman,  who  having  no 
children  of  her  own  desired  to  adopt  Owen. 

She  had  been  shown  the  door  with  haughty  con- 
tempt by  Miss  Bella,  who  had  never  mentioned  her 
preposterous  proposal  as  she  called  it,  even  to 
Georgie. 

Still,  that  troublesome  little  grain  of  common 
sense  would  keep  asking  irritating  questions  of 
Miss  Bella.  The  shop  had  been  all  very  well  to 
rear  the  children,  but  what  was  the  shop  to  pro- 
vide careers  for  them  ?  Besides  the  shop  had  been 
a  cause  of  anxiety  for  some  time  back.  Trade  had 
fallen  off.  A  new  line  of  railway  was  being  opened 
through  the  green  wood,  across  the  dim  valley.  It 
had  brought  rough  men  in  its  wake  who  gave 
another  character  to  the  peaceful  and  innocent 
country-side.  They  lived  for  the  most  part  in 
shanties  run  up  for  them  by  the  new  railway 
company.  Hard  in  their  wake  followed  a  shop,  a 
vulgar,  glaring  busy  shop,  crammed  to  the  door 
and  beyond  it  with  all  manner  of  things  the  village 
had  never  dreamt  of,  tinned  fruit  and  meats  and 
fish,  jams  and  marmalades,  sauces  and  all  manner 
of  queer  things. 

From  the  time  the  shop  was  established  Miss 
Bella's  trade  fell  away.  It  was  as  far  in  advance 
of  hers  as  hers  had  been  in  advance  of  the  little 

211 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

village  shops,  and  it  was  close  at  hand  for  the 
villagers,  not  a  good  three-quarters  of  a  mile  away 
like  Miss  Bella's. 

Soon  the  customers  were  so  few  and  so  far 
between  that  with  a  great  sinking  of  the  heart 
Miss  Bella  realised  that  if  things  went  on  as  they 
had  been  going  she  might  as  well  shut  up  shop 
altogether. 

Molly's  store  had  to  be  drawn  on  in  these  days. 
That  was  another  bitter  pill  to  Miss  Bella,  but 
Molly's  sisters  and  brothers  must  be  fed  and 
clothed  and  kept  warm.  And  there  was  the  ques- 
tion of  sending  Owen  away  to  school.  That  was 
an  idea  that  had  taken  possession  of  Miss  Bella's 
heart.  Owen  had  brains  enough  to  make  a  career 
for  himself,  if  but  he  was  given  the  chance.  What 
a  barrier  it  would  be  against  the  Kilcolman  widow 
and  her  shop  if  Owen  were  to  be  educated  like  a 
gentleman ! 

One  day  she  was  turning  over  Molly's  bank- 
notes— by  this  time  there  were  a  good  many  of 
them — when  Owen  came  into  the  room.  At  this 
time  he  was  a  handsome,  spirited  boy  of  sixteen, 
and  he  had  something  to  go  upon  in  the  way  of 
education,  for  Miss  Bella  had  employed  an  old 
schoolmaster  who  was  past  his  work,  to  teach  the 
children. 

212 


PEINCESS  MOLLY 

"  What  a  deal  of  money  you  have  there,  Aunt 
Bella  !  "  he  said. 

"  How  would  you  like  to  go  to  school,  Owen, 
and  to  college?"  she  asked,  turning  to  look  at 
him. 

For  a  moment  his  eyes  were  eager.  Then  the 
light  died  in  them. 

"  Out  of  that  ?  "  he  said,  indicating  the  money. 
"  Why,  that  is  all  you  have.  How  do  we  know 
Molly  will  go  on  sending  ?  I  have  wanted  to  talk 
to  you  about  things,  Aunt  Bella.  It  is  time  I 
earned  for  myself,  and  a  little  for  you." 

"  You,  Owen  !     Why,  what  could  you  do  ?  " 

''Anything.  Even  if  I  were  to  take  a  job  on 
the  railway  it  would  be  better  than  being  idle. 
You  won't  spend  any  of  that  money  on  me,  Aunt 
Bella." 

He  looked  at  her  with  his  proud  handsome 
young  head  flung  up,  and  her  heart  was  high  with 
pride  for  him  and  anguish  that  she  could  not 
give  him  the  chance  he  wanted.  It  was  true  that 
Molly  might  fail  them  any  day.  The  grain  of 
common  sense  agreed  with  Owen  that  the  sole 
provision  for  the  children,  as  well  as  for  herself 
and  Georgie,  old  women  both,  could  not  be  handed 
over  for  Owen's  benefit.  And  she  had  known  all 
the  time  that  sooner  or  later  she  must  tell  him  of 

213 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

Mrs.  Brophy's  desire  to  adopt  him.  Mrs.  Brophy 
was  a  rich  woman.  Owen  must  choose  if  he 
would  reject  or  accept  the  fortune  offered  to  him, 
with  its  distasteful  condition  that  he  must  go  into 
the  shop  and  carry  on  the  business  across  the 
counter. 

"  I  have  something  to  tell  you,  Owen,"  she  said ; 
and  told  him. 

"I  think  I  must  go,  Aunt  Bella,"  he  said,  when 
she  had  finished.  "  College  and  a  profession  are 
too  good  to  be  true.  After  all  a  fellow  needn't  be 
a  cad  if  he  does  sell  butter  and  bacon  over  a 
counter." 

Miss  Bella  knew  how  it  would  be.  She  remem- 
bered Mrs.  Brophy,  sleek,  comfortable,  purse-proud. 
Owen  was  so  young.  He  would  forget  her  teach- 
ings. He  would  marry  some  young  woman  who 
would  grow  in  time  to  be  like  Mrs.  Brophy. 
The  thought  had  the  bitterness  of  death  to  Miss 
Bella. 

"  I  shall  ask  her  for  a  salary,"  he  said,  "  and  I 
shall  send  every  penny  to  you.  To-morrow  I  shall 
go  to  see  her.  I  can  take  the  long  car  at  the  cross- 
roads, and  be  back  again  before  nightfall." 

But  that  to-morrow  never  came.  A  few  hours 
later  Miss  Bella  was  turning  over  Owen's  clothes, 
shabby,  weather-bleached  clothes,  which  the  lad 

214 


PEINCESS  MOLLY 

had  carried  with  an  air  of  proud  distinction.  They 
would  do  for  Owen  behind  the  counter.  The 
thought  caused  Miss  Bella  a  positive  sickness  of 
loathing.  But  after  to-morrow  Owen  would  be 
Mrs.  Brophy's,  hers  no  longer. 

She  had  not  noticed  the  unusual  sound  of  the 
approach  of  a  carriage  and  pair  along  the  road. 
But  as  it  drew  up  at  the  cottage  she  heard  it,  went 
to  the  window  and  looked  out.  It  was  the 
barouche  from  the  castle.  The  footman  was 
opening  the  door  for  a  lady  and  gentleman  to 
alight.  They  were  coming  up  to  the  little  door 
with  its  little  brass  knocker.  Was  it  Lord  and 
Lady  Inishmore  ?  Miss  Bella  put  on  her  glasses 
hastily  and  peeped  from  behind  the  lace  curtain. 
Was  it  ?  Could  it  be  ?— Molly ! 

Miss  Bella  forgot  her  wound.  She  was  a  woman 
of  impulses,  and  although  she  believed  herself  un- 
forgiving, she  really  forgave  royally;  at  this 
moment  she  only  remembered  that  Molly  had 
come  back. 

She  herself  opened  the  door  and  drew  Molly 
into  the  tiny  drawing-room.  Only  then  did  she 
notice  the  gentleman  who  followed  Molly — a  very 
splendid  person. 

"  This  is  the  Prince,  my  husband,"  said  Molly, 
flinging  herself  on  Miss  Bella.  "  And  oh,  can  you 

215 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

ever  forgive  me  ?  You  must  have  thought  me  the 
meanest  wretch  alive.  And  all  the  time  it  nearly 
broke  my  heart." 

Molly,  indeed,  now  that  the  first  colour  was 
ebbing,  looked  paler  than  the  old  Molly. 

The  Prince  had  taken  Miss  Bella's  hand,  and 
having  kissed  it,  as  though  it  were  the  hand  of  a 
queen  instead  of  being  toil-worn  and  discoloured, 
he  was  holding  it  in  one  of  his  own  and  softly 
patting  it  with  the  other. 

"  The  Princess,"  he  said  in  English  that  was  the 
clearer  for  the  most  delicate  foreign  enunciation, 
"  did  not  trust  my  love.  She  knew  that  we  were 
proud,  very  proud,  but  she  did  not  know  that  we 
were  far  too  proud  to  be  ashamed  of  a  lady  who 
kept  a  shop  so  that  she  might  provide  for  the  help- 
less orphans  committed  to  her  care.  She  has  told 
me  everything,  that  her  excellent  doctor  father 
came  of  a  race  of  peasants.  As  though  I  should 
love  her  the  less.  The  Princess  is  the  Princess. 
How  shall  I  ever  thank  you  for  making  her  what 
she  is.  At  last  she  confessed,  when  we  were  on 
the  eve  of  making  a  visit  to  Lord  Inishmore. 
I  was  in  despair  about  her.  She  was  fretting 
herself  to  death.  You  will  forgive  her,  dear 
friend,  when  you  see  what  it  has  cost  her — that 
folly." 

216 


PRINCESS  MOLLY 

Miss  Bella  looked  from  Molly  to  the  Prince. 
Somehow  she  had  an  intuition  of  what  Molly  had 
suffered.  Molly's  eyes  looked  with  a  certain  timid 
worship  at  the  Prince. 

"  Poor  child !  "  she  said,  "  poor  child  !  " 

So  Owen  did  not  go  to  Mrs.  Brophy's  after  all. 
Instead  he  was  sent  off  to  school  to  prepare  for 
the  university.  His  career  afterwards  would  be 
the  Prince's  affair.  The  Prince's  munificence  was 
like  an  Arabian  Nights'  tale.  It  was  nothing  to 
him  to  provide  for  the  Princess's  family ;  and  he 
did  provide  for  them  right  splendidly. 

Indeed,  if  the  aunts  would  have  consented,  he 
would  have  carried  off  the  whole  family  to  Russia. 
But  they  were  not  to  be  coaxed  from  their  cottage, 
so  Molly  had  to  be  content  with  her  little  sister 
Nora's  company  for  the  time  being. 

Now  that  the  shop  was  no  longer  needed  Larry 
Conroy  once  again  showed  his  skill  and  talent  by 
turning  it  into  a  room  for  the  two  young  people 
who  yet  remained  at  the  cottage,  and  who  were 
not  yet  quite  outside  the  age  of  toys  and  fairy- 
books. 

So,  through  the  agency  of  Molly's  Prince,  the 
Misses  Tyrawley  at  last  came  to  enjoy  that  social 
consideration  which  was  their  due.  Through  his 
splendid  generosity  they  were  able  to  add  to  the 

217 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

resources  of  the  cottage.  For  instance,  a  pony-car- 
riage became  a  very  necessary  thing  once  Lord  and 
Lady  Inishmore  had  taken  up  their  distant  cousins, 
and  there  was  visiting  to  be  done,  not  only  at  the 
Castle,  but  at  several  other  houses  of  importance, 
the  owners  of  which  had  never  known  of  the 
existence  of  the  Misses  Tyrawley,  but  were  very 
pleased  to  be  civil  to  the  family  of  the  Princess  and 
the  cousins  of  Lord  Inishmore. 

Miss  Bella  often  reproached  herself  for  her 
former  anger  against  Molly,  reading  the  loving 
letters  in  which  the  Princess  poured  out  her  heart. 
Miss  Bella  and  Miss  Georgie,  by  the  way,  travelled 
to  Kussia,  and  saw  for  themselves  the  state  in 
which  Molly  lived  and  were  witnesses  of  the 
great  love  with  which  her  husband  surrounded 
her. 

"  To  think,"  said  Molly,  on  one  occasion,  dashing 
away  some  radiant  tears,  "that  I  could  have  so 
misjudged  him !  As  though  his  pride  were  such 
a  poor  thing.  I  believe  indeed  the  only  time  I  was 
in  danger  of  his  frown  was  when  he  discovered  my 
folly  about  you.  I  believe  I  might  have  taken  him 
all  round  Ballymace,  and  introduced  him  to  the 
various  cousins  who  run  the  trade  and  commerce 
there.  He  is  so  splendid;  he  would  stand  any 
test." 

218 


PEINCESS  MOLLY 

But  Miss  Bella,  with  Molly's  son  on  her  knee, 
and  Molly's  three  adoring  stepsons  standing  round, 
gazing  at  Molly  with  an  absurd  resemblance  to 
their  father's  fond  and  faithful  gaze,  was  glad  that 
Molly  had  not  so  cheapened  her  Prince. 


219 


HIS  LOEDSHIP  AND  THE  POET. 

His  Lordship,  from  the  time  he  wore  a  velvet  suit 
and  his  hair  in  golden  curls  falling  upon  a  lace 
collar,  had  ever  and  always  been  an  egoist,  a  hand- 
some and  pleasant  egoist,  but  an  egoist  all  the 
same. 

The  woman  who  suffered  most  from  his  egoism, 
Mary  Ancaster,  was  the  one  who  would  have  been 
the  first  to  deny  its  existence,  although  somewhere 
at  the  back  of  her  clear  mind  she  must  have  known 
that  Lord  Portlester  in  his  dealings  with  her 
proved  himself  cold  and  selfish. 

He  had  begun  to  engross  her  when  they  were 
both  neighbours'  children,  and  she  had  had  the 
small  girl's  devotion  for  the  big  boy.  She  had 
fagged  for  him  in  those  days  till  he  came  to  that 
age  when  the  code  of  honour  forbids  a  boy  allow- 
ing a  girl  to  fag  for  him. 

Then  came  Eton  and  Oxford,  with  a  year  or  two 
at  a  German  University.  The  gap  brought  home 

220 


HIS  LOKDSHIP  AND  THE  POET 

to  his  Lordship,  as  contiguity  might  not,  Mary's 
exceeding  charm. 

Hers  was  the  benignant  type  of  beauty.  A  fair 
oval  face,  softly-banded  brown  hair,  an  expression 
serene  and  beneficent,  a  figure  of  soft  curves  and 
gracious  lines.  Lord  Portlester  showed  himself 
a  man  of  taste  when  he  selected  Mary  Ancaster 
for  his  attentions. 

Every  one  said  it  was  the  most  suitable  thing 
possible.  Their  lands  adjoined.  Their  fathers  had 
been  friends.  Both  were  handsome,  well-liked, 
clever,  healthy,  high  in  every  one's  esteem.  The 
county  looked  for  the  marriage  to  take  place 
within  a  very  short  time  of  Mr.  Ancaster's  death, 
which  occurred  some  three  months  after  Lord 
Portlester  had  settled  down  on  his  estates.  Of 
course  there  must  be  a  period  of  mourning ;  but 
then, — there  would  be  a  wedding,  and  Portlester 
would  once  more  be  open  to  the  county  as  it  had 
not  been  these  many  years,  both  Lord  Portlester's 
parents  having  died  early  in  his  minority. 

The  county  watched  in  vain  for  the  marriage, 
— the  engagement.  After  a  time  people  began  to 
murmur,  to  say  that  it  was  a  shame.  If  Lord 
Portlester  did  not  mean  to  marry  Miss  Ancaster 
he  should  not  be  a  dog  in  the  manger.  He  had  a 
way  of  driving  off  possible  and  probable  suitors — 

221 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

for  Miss  Ancaster's  calm  beauty  no  less  than  her 
lovely  character  brought  her  many  lovers. 

As  soon  as  one  began  to  show  himself  as  a  lover, 
to  claim  privileges,  his  Lordship  would  come  on 
the  scene  and  drive  off  the  intruder.  It  was  Mary 
this  and  Mary  that  with  him — she  was  always 
Mary  to  him  as  he  was  always  Eoy  to  her — and  the 
defeated  aspirant  would  retire  into  the  background. 
None  had  ever  been  quite  strong  enough  to  chal- 
lenge his  Lordship's  claim.  There  was  something 
in  Mary's  eyes  as  they  rested  on  him  which  was 
more  effectual  than  anything  his  Lordship  could 
have  done  in  persuading  the  suitors  that  their 
cause  was  a  lost  one. 

The  years  passed  and  people  had  grown 
used  to  the  queer  state  of  things  in  which  his 
Lordship  kept  all  other  men  at  bay,  claiming  the 
place  at  Mary's  side  without  ever  going  any  far- 
ther. They  said  among  themselves  that  if  Miss 
Ancaster  would  but  turn  his  Lordship  out  of 
doors  she  would  soon  bring  him  to  her  feet.  As 
it  was  he  had  all  he  wanted,  some  one  to  listen 
to  him,  to  smile  on  him,  to  appreciate  his  sallies 
and  his  more  serious  moods — there  was  no  doubt 
his  Lordship  had  plenty  of  brains ;  they  walked 
together  and  danced  together  and  rode  together 
and  hunted  together.  To  do  his  Lordship  justice, 

222 


HIS  LOKDSHIP  AND  THE  POET 

if  he  never  let  another  man  approach  Miss  An- 
caster  as  even  a  possible  suitor,  he  himself  was 
coldly  uninterested  in  the  various  pretty  girls 
who  would  have  detached  him  from  Mary's  side. 

"You  spoil  a  man  for  other  girls,  Mary,"  he 
had  often  said  to  her ;  and  she  would  smile  her 
bright  serene  smile  on  his  handsome  self -sufficient 
face. 

To  be  sure  Mary  was  very  unlike  the  other  girls 
of  the  neighbourhood.  She  was  interested  in  the 
things  in  which  they  were  not,  in  politics,  in  art, 
in  literature,  in  science.  If  she  had  not  been  she 
would  hardly  have  satisfied  his  Lordship,  as  it 
would  hardly  have  been  possible  for  the  attach- 
ment to  remain  at  the  point  of  friendship  all  those 
years.  His  Lordship  belonged  to  a  good  many 
learned  societies.  He  wrote  occasionally  in  the 
reviews.  He  was  a  brilliant,  eloquent,  intemper- 
ate talker.  A  thousand  pities  people  said  that  he 
didn't  go  into  public  life,  beyond  the  petty  con- 
cerns of  the  rural  life  over  which  he  took  as 
much  pains  as  though  the  infinitesimal  affairs  were 
of  world-wide  importance. 

He  was  very  candid  about  it  to  Mary, — when  was 
he  less  than  candid  with  her  ? 

"  Old  Chasefield  asked  me  to-day,"  he  said,  with 
a  laugh,  "why  I  hadn't  made  more  use  of  my 

223 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

abilities,  gone  into  politics  or  something  of  that 
sort.  I  didn't  tell  him  the  real  reason,  Mary ; 
because  I  could  not  have  you  constantly  to  talk  to. 
You've  tied  me  up  firmly  to  your  apron-strings  all 
these  years." 

She  smiled  at  him  again,  a  smile  of  infinite 
patience.  How  was  it  that  he  did  not  see,  did  not 
desire  the  natural  ending  of  such  a  necessity? 
He  probably  never  would  see  it  now.  They  had 
both  left  hot  youth  behind  them.  He  was  writ  in 
the  Peerage  for  all  to  read  thirty-five  years  old. 
She  would  never  see  thirty  again.  He  would  be 
satisfied  till  one  or  other  of  them  died  with  that 
anomalous  bond  between  them ;  he  would  never 
now  want  to  make  her  his  wife.  She  was  always 
ready  to  listen  to  him,  always  cheerful  and  sympa- 
thetic and  understanding.  He  never  could  have 
guessed  at  the  regrets  that  ached  in  her  heart 
when  she  thought  of  what  she  ought  to  have 
had,  the  husband,  the  home,  the  children. 

There  were  tastes  into  which  he  did  not  follow 
her.  One  was  her  love  of  poetry.  His  mind  was 
more  practical.  Somewhere  at  the  back  of  it  he 
thought  that  poetry  was  a  poor  thing  for  a  man ; 
all  very  fine  for  women  to  write  about  their 
thoughts  and  feelings,  but  a  man !  The  whole 
egoist  in  him  rose  to  rebuke  the  poet. 

224 


HIS  LOEDSHIP  AND  THE  POET 

It  was  therefore  an  unpleasant  surprise  to  him 
when  Mary  told  him  that  she  had  asked  Geoffrey 
Chapone,  the  young  poet,  to  visit  her  at  the  Ivy 
House.  Mary  had  grown  independent  of  late, 
claiming  the  privileges  of  her  years.  Besides  there 
was  her  Aunt  Sophie,  a  scatter-brained  elderly 
spinster  who  had  played  propriety  for  Mary  during 
the  years  since  her  father's  death.  Portlester  had 
often  laughed  over  the  humour  of  Miss  Sophie 
Ancaster's  sinecure.  Mary  had  been  looking  after 
her  since  she  was  seven. 

"What  on  earth  do  you  want  him  for?"  his 
Lordship  asked  with  a  frown.  "  He's  a  tiresome 
poseur.  Why  I  was  introduced  to  him  half  a  dozen 
times  last  season,  yet  invariably  the  next  time  we 
met  he  failed  to  recognise  me.  Am  I  so  very  much 
like  all  the  rest  of  the  world  then  ?  " 

"  He  is  always  in  the  clouds,"  said  Mary,  re- 
pressing a  smile.  "  He  hardly  ever  knows  any  one, 
I  believe.  Then,  though  he  has  such  beautiful  eyes, 
they  are  really  purblind." 

His  Lordship  felt  annoyed — a  very  unusual  feel- 
ing for  him,  for  he  was  generally  too  well-pleased 
with  himself  not  to  be  pleased  with  the  world. 
Beautiful  eyes  indeed !  What  the  deuce  did  a 
man  want  with  beautiful  eyes  ?  Not  that  Chapone 
was  a  man.  No,  he  was  a  consummate  ass  and 

15  225 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

various  other  things.  The  ill-temper  surged  in  his 
head. 

"  I  shan't  be  able  to  stand  him  very  long,  Mary," 
he  said,  "  so  I  give  you  frank  warning.  I  might 
have  to  kick  him  one  day.  I  beg  your  pardon, 
Mary."  She  was  looking  at  him  in  amazement. 
"I  can  see  he's  going  to  spoil  everything.  It  has 
always  been  so  ideal  in  this  house.  I  think  I'll  run 
up  to  town  while  he's  here." 

But  he  did  not  run  up  to  town.  Instead  he  was 
more  at  the  Ivy  House  than  ever.  To  his  bewilder- 
ment he  found  that,  for  the  first  time  since  he  had 
known  and  claimed  Mary,  some  one  had  the  in- 
credible hardihood  to  push  him  out,  and  that  some 
one,  a  lantern-jawed,  hollow-eyed,  starveling  poet, 
who  seemed  amazingly  unconscious  of  the  fact 
of  Lord  Portlester's  existence ;  had  a  way  of  look- 
ing over  him  and  through  him;  of  not  hearing 
him  when  he  spoke.  Incredible  !  Incredible  !  And 
though  his  Lordship  called  him  an  insolent  poseur, 
in  his  heart  he  knew  that  his  attitude  was  not 
pose  at  all  but  perfectly  genuine ;  that,  incredible 
as  it  might  seem,  he,  Lord  Portlester,  counted  for 
absolutely  nothing  to  Geoffrey  Chapone,  whom 
some  one  had  picked  out  of  a  garret,  starving,  only 
a  year  or  two  ago. 

Geoffrey  Chapone  seemed  to  like  his  position  at 
226 


HIS  LOEDSHIP  AND  THE  POET 

the  Ivy  House  so  much  that  the  we^ks  passed  and 
yet  he  showed  no  sign  of  a  desire  to  be  gone.  Nor 
did  Mary  seem  to  wish  to  get  rid  of  him ;  that  was 
the  worst  of  it.  All  the  old  intercourse  and  com- 
panionship which  had  grown  as  necessary  to  his 
Lordship  as  the  breath  of  life  had  come  to  an  end. 
The  fellow  was  always  there ;  always  lolling  at 
Mary's  side  or  her  feet,  reading  poetry  to  her, 
always  being  cosseted  by  that  absurd  person  Miss 
Sophie  Ancaster,  who  looked  after  the  poet  as 
though  he  had  been  a  convalescent  child,  feeding 
him  up  with  all  sorts  of  dainties,  hanging  on  his 
utterances.  Why,  confound  it,  for  the  matter  of 
that  Mary  hung  on  his  utterances  too !  She  never 
seemed  to  get  too  much  of  the  poetry. 

Life  was  altogether  spoilt  for  his  Lordship  in 
those  days.  He  grew  short-tempered.  The  rank- 
ling sense  of  injury  was  always  with  him.  He 
wouldn't  have  believed  it  of  Mary.  She  had  dis- 
appointed him.  She  was  like  the  rest  of  the 
women. 

While  he  said  it  he  knew  in  his  heart  that  he 
uttered  a  heresy. 

It  was  the  Kev.  Samuel  Smee,  the  freckled,  snub- 
nosed  parson  of  a  neighbouring  parish,  who  put 
the  coping-stone  on  the  edifice  of  his  Lordship's 
discomfort. 

227 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

His  Lordship  detested  Smee.  They  had  been 
at  school  and  college  together,  and  Smee  had  never 
treated  him  with  proper  respect.  Smee  was  the 
sort  of  person  to  poke  you  in  the  ribs  with  a  fore- 
finger to  point  one  of  his  fatuous  jokes,  no  matter 
how  aloof  your  manner  wras  with  him. 

"Well,"  said  the  Rev.  Samuel,  intercepting  his 
Lordship  as  he  walked  home  from  the  Ivy  House, 
in,  if  it  must  be  confessed,  a  horrible  temper,  "so 
our  lovely  Miss  Ancaster  is  to  marry  the  poet.  We 
are  all  inconsolable.  We  used  to  think  it  would 
have  been  you,  Portlester,  but  you  were  too  dilatory. 
Dilatoriness  in  love  is  a  crime." 

Lord  Portlester  walked  away  from  him,  not 
trusting  himself  to  speak.  He  had  nearly  felled 
the  harmless  little  man  as  he  chattered. 

Unconsciously  he  walked  back  the  way  he  had 
come.  His  mind  was  in  a  ferment.  Not  that  he 
believed  the  little  ass.  Mary  would  never  do 
such  a  thing,  never.  But,  good  heavens,  that  any 
one  could  suppose  it  possible  !  Mary  !  his  Mary  ! 

A  sudden  passion  of  jealous  ownership  surged  in 
his  breast.  What  an  ass  he  had  been !  He  had 
deserved  to  lose  her,  his  one  priceless  woman. 

He  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  Ivy  House  which 
he  had  left  half  an  hour  before,  and  asked  Green 
the  butler  if  he  would  tell  Miss  Ancaster  that  he 

228 


HIS  LOEDSHIP  AND  THE  POET 

wished  to  see  her.  "  On  business,  Green,"  he 
added,  and  blushed.  He  and  Green  were  old 
friends. 

"I  shall  wait  here,"  he  said,  turning  the  handle 
of  the  bare,  austere  room  where  Mary's  father  had 
transacted  all  his  business,  a  room  sacred  to  his 
daughter. 

In  a  few  minutes  she  came  in,  glowing  in  a 
trailing  gown  of  autumn-leaf  coloured  velvet  from 
which  her  beautiful  shoulders  rose  snowily. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  changed  your  mind  and  will 
dine  with  us,  after  all,"  she  said:  then  paused  in 
a  little  bewildered  alarm  at  some  subtle  change  in 
the  face  which  had  been  too  self-satisfied  all  those 
years  to  be  altogether  pleasing. 

"  Mary,"  he  said,  "  I've  come  back — not  for  my 
dinner,  although  I'm  a  hungry  man — but  for  your 
love,  Mary.  I've  discovered  that  I'm  head-over- 
ears  in  love  with  you.  I  always  have  been,  though 
I  must  have  seemed  as  cold  as  a  fish.  Something 
has  come  awake  in  me.  I  want  you,  darling." 

Bed  as  a  rose  she  gave  herself  to  his  embrace. 

"  I  thought  you  were  going  to  let  me  die  an  old 
maid,"  she  whispered.  "  Because,  of  course,  you 
would  not  speak,  yet  I  was  yours,  and  there  never 
could  be  anybody  else." 

"I  met  Smee,"  he  said  laughing  triumphantly. 

229 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

"  He! said, — confound  his  impertinence  ! — that  you 
were  going  to  marry  the  poet.  I  very  nearly 
punched  his  head." 

"But  you  did  better/'  she  said,  smiling  up  at 
him.  "  The  poor  poet !  He  is  so  comfortable  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life !  One  didn't  grudge  it  to 
him,  although  it  has  rather  spoilt  things  for  us, 
Eoy." 

"  No,  poor  devil !  "  said  his  Lordship  magnani- 
mously. 


230 


THE  KING  COPHETUA. 

MURIEL  HARDY  went  along  with  a  dragging  step. 
It  was  an  intolerably  hot  August,  and  the  house- 
fronts  smoked  like  an  oven.  From  day  to  day 
they  had  not  time  to  cool.  The  pavements  burned 
her  feet  through  the  thin  soles  of  her  shoes.  Her 
eyes  ached  from  the  greyness  and  whiteness  of  the 
flags  and  the  dust.  The  trees  and  bushes  in  the 
square  were  parched  and  miserable.  Day  after 
day  went  without  the  clouds  that  would  bring 
the  rain.  Would  it  never  rain  again?  In  the 
country  there  were  dews  and  greenness.  The 
dews  never  fell  over  London  town.  To  Muriel's 
ear,  delicate  and  sensitive,  the  air  was  full  of  the 
crying  of  little  voices  for  the  blessed  rain. 

It  was  six  o'clock  and  she  was  on  her  way  home 
from  the  last  of  her  tuitions.  She  had  come  to 
this,  that  she  was  daily  visiting-governess  to  the 
children  of  people  who  never  went  out  of  town,  of 
shopkeepers  in  this  dreary  and  decayed  part  of 
London,  where  the  houses  seemed  to  reach  the 

231 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

sky,  and  you  saw  the  dry-rot  eat  like  a  visible 
thing  into  one  after  another  of  the  old  crescents 
and  squares  and  roads  that  had  once  been  places 
of  some  consideration. 

This  hot  day  the  children  had  been  especially 
wearing,  the  mothers  had  been  more  interfering 
than  usual.  Mrs.  Jelf,  the  grocer's  wife,  had  com- 
plained that  the  children's  accent  had  not  improved 
with  Miss  Hardy,  and  had  even  suggested  that  the 
governess  was  in  some  way  responsible  for  their 
Cockney  pronunciation.  Mrs.  Leys,, the  chemist's 
wife,  had  mentioned  .that  a  friend  of  hers  had  a 
young  lady  at  a  smaller  rate  than  Muriel's  starve- 
ling prices,  who  had  languages  and  drawing. 
Doubtless  children  and  mothers  alike  were  affected 
by  the  intolerable  heat  and  glare.  Yet  since  there 
may  be  a  flower  in  the  dreariest  places,  Mrs.  Hay- 
wood,  the  greengrocer's  wife,  had  pitied  Muriel's 
pale  cheeks  as  she  passed  out  through  the  shop, 
and  had  slipped  into  her  hand  a  paper  bag  con- 
taining two  pears. 

Muriel's  way  lay  across  the  square.  Such  a 
hard  climb  as  it  was  from  one  side  of  it ;  such  a 
sheer  descent  on  the  other.  The  square  kept 
something  of  its  old  grandeur  and  was  inhabited 
chiefly  by  old-fashioned  people  who  had  built  their 
palatial  houses  there  when  there  were  yet  fields 

232 


THE  KING  COPHETUA 

within  a  stone's  throw.  The  square  grass-plots 
were  rolled  and  watered  and  mowed  by  a  small 
army  of  gardeners,  and  kept  still  something  of 
freshness  when  all  the  world  panted  and  scorched. 

The  square  was  on  top  of  so  high  a  hill  that  it 
was  possible  to  get  a  breath  of  air  there  most  days. 
On  either  hand  London  lay  in  the  mist  of  heat  and 
smoke  and  was  invisible.  There  might  have  been 
better  things  than  chimney-pots  in  that  lurid  and 
shining  mist. 

For  a  wonder  Muriel  found  a  seat  vacant  just 
outside  the  square  railings.  She  had  had  no 
thought  of  sitting  down.  It  was  the  good  hour  of 
the  day  when  she  got  home  to  Elsie  and  she 
was  not  minded  to  delay  it.  But  just  as  she 
reached  the  friendly  seat  she  swayed  a  little.  The 
mists  became  a  mirage  in  which  she  saw  green 
fields  and  the  waves  of  the  sea.  She  had  barely 
strength  to  totter  to  the  seat,  to  sink  down  on  it  and 
close  her  faint  eyes. 

A  dusty  tree  that  had  carried  pink  may  in  its 
hey-day  projected  over  her  head,  giving  her  shade 
from  the  sun.  She  opened  her  eyes  languidly  and 
looked  across  at  the  grey  church  opposite  with  its 
slate  roof  shining  and  the  vane  on  top  of  the  steeple 
flashing  in  the  sun.  She  was  glad  to  close  them 
again. 

233 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

The  faintness  had  passed  off  leaving  her  lan- 
guid and  glad  of  the  rest  on  the  sheltered  seat. 
Presently  she  must  hurry  home  to  Elsie  who 
would  be  watching  for  her.  Elsie  must  have  found 
the  day  very  hot.  She  would  enjoy  one  of  Mrs. 
Hay  wood's  pears.  Muriel  put  out  her  hand  and 
touched  the  bag  where  it  lay  on  the  seat  beside 
her,  and  sent  a  languidly  grateful  thought  towards 
that  good  Samaritan.  And  presently  the  sun  would 
go  down,  and  she  would  help  Elsie  up  to  their 
roof -gar  den  as  they  called  the  little  nook  they  had 
made  among  the  chimney-pots,  and  they  could 
breathe. 

While  she  sat  with  closed  eyes  a  picture  came 
out  of  the  darkness  and  remained  with  her.  It  was 
the  tennis-lawn  of  an  old  Norfolk  house.  The  grey 
gables  and  chimneys  of  the  house  looked  over  walls 
of  yew  and  hornbeam.  Through  arches  cut  in 
those  walls  one  saw  an  old-fashioned' formal  garden. 
The  tennis-lawn  was  shaded  by  great  trees  to  the 
west,  and  was  in  velvety  shadow  and  coolness. 
There  were  roses  at  one  side  of  the  lawn  like  little 
lamps  of  fire  in  their  gloom  of  leaves.  She  saw 
herself  playing  tennis,  a  long-armed,  graceful  girl, 
in  a  white  frock,  her  pale-gold  hair  piled  on  top  of 
her  head  in  a  mass,  fine  as  spun  silk.  Her  grace, 
her  hair,  her  violet  eyes  were  beauties  that  did  not 

234 


THE  KING  COPHETUA 

make  up  for  her  insignificant  f  eatu  res  and  colour- 
less complexion.  Yet  when  the  game  was  over, 
and  she  stood  swinging  her  racket  at  the  end  of 
the  lawn  while  another  set  was  being  formed,  the 
lads  were  round  her  thick  as  bees. 

There  were  others  in  the  picture.  There  was 
Mother  presiding  over  the  tea  and  coffee  and  the 
claret  cup.  There  was  Elsie  in  her  invalid  wheel- 
chair. There  was  Father  talking  to  Archdea- 
con Phayre  and  Lady  Phayre  and  they  were 
laughing  heartily.  Father  was  holding  his  pince- 
nez  in  one  hand  and  emphasising  his  story  with 
the  forefinger  of  the  other.  And  other  people 
pressed  close  to  hear  what  Father  was  saying, — 
very  fine,  blue-blooded  exclusive  people.  The 
county  which  had  turned  up  its  nose  at  Bobert 
Hardy's  reputed  great  wealth  capitulated  to  the 
man's  charm,  the  charm  which  they  were  saying 
had  been  a  few  months  later  a  wile  to  lure  his 
victims  to  destruction. 

But  meanwhile  who  thought  of  calamity  and 
death  that  golden  summer  afternoon  ? 

Muriel  looked  curiously  at  the  picture  on  her 
dazzled  retina  of  the  girl  in  a  white  frock  swinging 
her  tennis-racket.  It  seemed  now  that  there  could 
be  no  possible  relation  between  her  and  that  girl. 

Two  faces  amid  the  group  of  masculine  faces 

235 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

stood  out  clearly.  One  was  a  dark,  handsome 
reckless  face,  no  longer  young,  the  face  of  such  a 
man  as  often  takes  captive  a  young  girl's  fancy : 
she  thinks  of  Eochester,  of  Guy  Livingstone. 
There  were  a  good  many  lines  on  the  handsome 
face ;  the  fine  mouth  under  its  moustache  was 
cynical  and  cold.  The  man  had  at  once  terrified 
and  fascinated  that  golden-haired  girl  in  the  white 
frock.  He  had  kissed  her  once  secretly,  and  the 
memory  made  the  girl's  eyes  fall  and  the  colour 
come  to  her  cheeks  whenever  Sir  Ealph  Verrinder 
came  near  her.  He  would  look  at  her,  smiling, 
with  a  certain  insolence  which  enraged  his  young 
cousin. 

Dick  Verrinder's  face  was  as  unlike  as  possible 
to  his  cousin's.  Muriel  could  see  him  as  he  stood 
scowling  that  day,  not  a  bit  good-looking,  but 
wholesome  and  pleasant,  despite  the  scowl,  with 
freckles  on  a  sun-burnt  skin,  a  nondescript  nose, 
dusty  hair,  an  angular  boyish  figure,  an  obstinate 
mouth  and  chin,  and  blue  eyes  usually  full  of  good- 
will to  all  the  world,  but  at  that  moment  full  of 
angry  lightnings.  There  was  no  love  lost  between 
Sir  Ealph  Verrinder  of  Whirlicote  Hall  and  his 
young  cousin  Dick,  who  lived  with  his  widowed 
mother  in  a  little  cottage  in  the  village,  and  was 
as  happy  and  well  liked  as  he  was  poor.  Presently 


THE  KING  COPHETUA 

he  was  going  for  a  soldier  and  many  people  would 
feel  the  poorer. 

There  had  been  an  informal  dance  and  supper 
after  the  tennis.  The  Hardy s  were  as  hospitable 
as  they  were  rich.  The  young  couples  strolled  in 
the  gardens  under  the  full  harvest  moon.  Dick 
Verrinder  had  taken  Muriel,  very  much  against  her 
will,  to  the  haha  that  was  (between  the  kitchen 
garden  and  the  park.  He  had  drawn  her  cloak 
about  her  shoulders  with  a  rough,  boyish  tender- 
ness. He  had  been  so  indiscreet  as  to  speak 
to  her  about  his  cousin.  He  denounced  him  with 
honest  heat.  Who  ever  heard  anything  good  of 
Ralph  ?  His  attentions  were  an  insult  to  any 
innocent  girl.  He  had  been  too  selfish  to  marry 
hitherto;  if  he  thought  of  marriage  now  it  was 
in  order  to  pay  his  debts. 

"  He  is  tied  up  uncommonly  tight,"  said  Dick 
with  grim  satisfaction.  "I  think  the  grandfather 
knew  Master  Ealph  through  and  through." 

Muriel  remembered  her  own  choking  anger,  her 
tears,  often  the  woman's  outlet  for  anger.  She 
heard  the  boy's  voice  again. 

"  My  darling,  I'd  rather  shoot  myself  than  give 
you  an  instant's  pain.  But  he  isn't  fit  for  you  to 
look  at — an  innocent  white  dove  like  you " 

Was  it  possible  that  it  was  she,  Muriel,  who  had 
237 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

found  such  bitter  words  to  say  to  her  young  lover  ? 
She  remembered  dancing  time  after  time  with  Sir 
Ealph  Verrinder,  while  Dick's  furious  face  looked 
out  from  dim  corners  and  around  door-posts.  That 
night  she  had  accepted  Sir  Ealph.  She  remembered 
her  mother's  troubled  look,  her  father's  frown. 
She  had  never  seen  Dick  Verrinder  again.  He  had 
joined  at  once  the  battalion  of  his  regiment  which 
was  going  on  foreign  service  and  had  left  England 
for  five  years. 

Before  five  months  were  over  ruin  and  death 
had  overwhelmed  the  Hardys.  Robert  Hardy 
had  stripped  himself  bare  to  satisfy  his  creditors, 
and  had  died  of  an  unsuspected  aneurism.  His 
widow  had  stripped  herself  still  further  with  a  fine 
fanaticism.  The  tongue  of  scandal  was  silent. 
Some  people  even  talked  of  Robert  Hardy  as 
quixotic ;  but  his  widow  died  praising  God  that 
although  she  and  her  children  had  come  to  poverty, 
no  one  had  cause  to  curse  her  husband's  memory. 

As  for  Sir  Ralph  Verrinder  he  had  bowed  him- 
self out  when  the  collapse  had  come,  and  had  gone 
abroad  to  the  gaming-tables,  where  all  he  could 
squander  of  Verrinder  money  had  been  dissipated. 

All  that  was  over  ten  years  ago,  gone  like  a 
dream.  There  was  nothing  left  of  it,  only  invalid 
Elsie  making  her  little  stories  and  poems  in  the 
238 


THE  KING  COPHETUA 

garret  at  the  top  of  the  house  uver  the  watch- 
makers' shop,  and  Muriel,  of  no  accomplishments, 
wearing  herself  out  teaching  the  children  of  the 
little  shopkeepers. 

It  was  almost  like  a  continuation  of  the  vision, 
seen  as  between  sleeping  and  waking  when  a  voice 
spoke  at  her  ear. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  voice,  and  there 
was  a  quiver  of  emotion  in  it.  "I  wonder  if  you 
will  remember  me,  Miss  Hardy.  Dick  Verrinder 
of  the  old  Norfolk  days.  It  was  so  lucky  that  I 
was  visiting  my  old  aunts  in  the  square  this  even- 
ing of  all  evenings." 

Muriel  opened  her  eyes.  Her  boyish  lover  was 
greatly  changed.  He  was  more  than  bronzed, 
even  a  little  yellowed  by  Asiatic  suns.  The  blue 
eyes  had  acquired  a  frosty  look  which  was  not 
there  in  the  old  days.  But  the  clean  spare  figure, 
admirably  tailored,  the  lean  face,  the  close-cropped 
head  were  oddly  distinguished.  In  the  old  days 
Muriel  had  known  such  men.  Of  late  years  she 
had  only  seen  them  in  the  street.  The  only  man 
she  knew  now  with  any  degree  of  intimacy  was 
Mr.  Stipple,  their  landlord,  who  was  so  good  to  her 
and  Elsie,  a  dear  old  man,  one  of  the  quaint 
Londoners  that  Dickens  knew.  For  the  rest  she 
occasionally  exchanged  a  greeting  with  the  fathers 

239 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

of  her  pupils.  She  had  not  spoken  to  a  gentleman 
for  years. 

" Did  I  startle  you? "  Dick  Verrinder  asked,  his 
eyes  devouring  her  face.  "I  am  so  sorry,  but  I 
have  been  looking  for  you  everywhere.  I  had 
given  up  all  hope  of  finding  you.  You  do  not  look 
well."  There  was  a  note  of  anguish  in  his  voice 
as  he  said  it.  "Now,  where  are  you  living?  I 
am  not  going  to  lose  sight  of  you  again.  May  I 
sit  down  ?  There  are  so  many  things  to  hear  and 
to  tell." 

He  had  the  shabbily  gloved  hand  in  his.  Muriel 
gazed  at  him  as  though  he  were  a  visitant  from 
another  world.  She  felt  as  if  she  must  shrink  into 
herself  away  from  him  ;  she  must  be  looking  so 
shabby,  so  dusty,  so  old.  He  had 'a  gardenia  in  the 
lapel  of  his  coat.  There  was  a  fresh  and  clean  air 
about  him  as  tangible  as  the  scent  of  violets.  How 
deplorable  she  must  seem  to  him  ! 

11 1  was  on  my  way  home,"  she  said.  "My 
sister  Elsie  and  I  live  near  here.  I  felt  rather 
dazed  by  the  heat  and  so  I  sat  down.  It  was  the 
merest  chance." 

"  A  blessed  chance,"  he  said. 

She  stared  at  him,  and  got  an  impression  of  an 
obstinate  chin,  more  obstinate  than  she  remem- 
bered it.  He  was  still  holding  her  hand,  uncon- 

240 


THE  KING  COPHETUA 

scions  of  the  few  fatigued  passers-by.  He  was 
looking  at  her  as  though  she  and  he  were  alone  in 
the  world. 

"  I  have  been  looking  for  you  for  years,"  he  said. 
"It  was  a  long  time  before  I  heard  the  things 
that  had  happened.  My  dear  mother  died  the 
year  after  I  went  out.  There  was  some  trouble 
and  we  were  sent  to  a  wild  part.  I  thought  you 
were  Lady  Verrinder.  Frankly,  I  never  wanted  to 
come  back.  When  the  regiment  was  ordered  home 
I  exchanged  into  one  just  begun  its  term  of  service. 
Then  I  heard  about  the  things  that  had  happened ; 
but  I  was  bound  to  stay  where  I  was.  All  in- 
quiries made  from  that  distance  failed.  I  came 
home  last  spring.  I  thought  the  clue  was  utterly 
lost  at  times,  but  I've  kept  at  it ;  I  should  have 
kept  at  it  till  I  died." 

"  Why?  "  she  asked  in  amazement. 

"Why?"  he  repeated.  "I  told  you  I  should 
never  change.  You  are  a  free  woman,  Muriel?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "I  am  free  except  that  I  am 
bound  to  Elsie.  Don't  you  see  how  I  am  changed  ? 
For  nearly  ten  years  I  have  been  teaching  the 
children  of  the  little  bourgeoisie  down  there."  She 
indicated  the  valley  of  mist  below  the  hill.  "  There 
was  nothing  left  for  us.  We  gave  everything, 
even  Mother's  jewels,  to  the  creditors,  Now  and 

16  241 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

again  Elsie  sells  a  poem  or  a  story.  It  is  ten  years 
since  I  have  had  a  holiday.  Our  landlord  is  a 
good  Samaritan,  and — we  live." 

"Take  me  home  with  you,"  he  said.  "You 
are  done  with  mere  living  henceforth." 

"Ah,"  she  said,  "you  are  like  that  boy  of  old. 
You  used  always  to  be  so  sure  of  what  you  wanted. 
But— Mr.  Verrinder " 

"  Captain  Verrinder,"  he  amended.  "  Presently 
you  will  call  me  Dick.  Now  that  I  have  found 
you  I  will  allow  you  any  time  you  want.  We 
shall  be  married  at  the  church  over  there.  I  know 
the  vicar.  He  is  a  dear  old  boy." 

She  gasped. 

"  Ah,"  she  said.  "  You  are  so  surprised  at  find- 
ing me  that  you  have  not  realised.  I  am  thirty- 
three,  and  I  have  had  a  hard  life.  I  feel  a  hundred 
and  three  sometimes,  and  I  look  forty-three  at 
least.  Don't  you  see  how  faded,  how  shabby,  I 
have  grown  ?  Besides,  you  know,  I  never  loved 
you." 

"  But  you  will  love  me,"  he  said  calmly.  "  As 
for  any  change  in  you,  you  are  the  woman  I  loved 
and  shall  always  love.  I  have  come  to  take  care 
of  you  and  your  sister." 

The  clock  in  the  church  tower  rang  the  three- 
quarters. 

242 


THE  KING  COPHETUA 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  jumping  up,  "Elsie  will  be 
terrified.  I  am  always  home  by  a  quarter  past. 
Good-bye,  Captain  Verrinder." 

"  I  am  coming  too,"  he  said,  turning  and  walking 
by  her  side. 

She  felt  too  utterly  bewildered  to  gainsay  him. 
At  the  foot  of  the  hill  a  great  artery  of  West  Lon- 
don ran  at  right  angles  to  the  way  they  were 
taking. 

"  My  pears,"  she  cried,  suddenly  remembering 
them  at  the  sight  of  a  fruit-shop.  "  I  was  bringing 
home  two  pears  to  Elsie.  She  feels  the  heat  so. 
I  have  left  them  behind  on  the  seat.  Oh,  how 
stupid  of  me  !  Some  one  has  probably  taken  them 
by  this  time." 

" Very  probably,"  he  said.  "It  is  lucky  we  can 
replace  them.  Come  in  here." 

Muriel  followed  him  into  the  shop,  being  con- 
scious all  the  while  that  people  stared  at  the  contrast 
between  her  shabbiness  and  his  attire.  She  watched 
in  the  same  daze  the  shopman  put  up  peaches  and 
grapes  and  pears,  with  a  magnificent  basket  of 
roses.  As  they  left  the  shop,  Dick  carrying  his 
purchases,  she  felt  the  scent  of  the  roses  all  about 
her.  They  seemed  to  light  the  stuffy  dark  stairs 
of  the  lodgings. 

"  I  have  met  an  old  friend,  Elsie,"  she  said,  going 

243 


STY, 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

in  first.  "You  remember  Mr.  Verrinder?  he  is 
Captain  Verrinder  now." 

"  I  have  been  looking  for  your  sister  everywhere," 
Dick  Verrinder  said,  sitting-down  on  the  end  of 
the  little  sofa  on  which  Elsie  sat,  half -reclined,  and 
looking  very  fragile  in  her  muslin  gown.  "Pre- 
sently she  is  going  to  give  me  the  right  to  take 
care  of  you  both.  Yes,  you  are,  Muriel.  I  shall 
give  you  as  much  time  as  you  want.  But  I  think 
you  have  kept  me  long  enough  waiting." 

It  was  an  odd  business ;  but  Dick  Verrinder 
never  seemed  to  see  it  in  that  light.  From  that 
time  onwards  the  two  sisters,  who  had  been  so 
lonely  except  for  the  kind  old  watchmaker,  found 
themselves  watched  over  by  a  constant,  tender 
protection.  Still  Muriel  went  to  and  from  her 
tuitions ;  still  she  protested  that  Dick  had  some 
strange  veil  on  his  eyes  which  kept  him  from 
seeing  her  as  she  really  was. 

The  weather  continued  very  hot,  through  August, 
right  into  September.  But  there  were  alleviations 
now.  The  most  wonderful  delicacies  arrived  day 
after  day  addressed,  to  the  two  girls.  Every  even- 
ing Dick  Verrinder  made  his  appearance,  and  would 
sit  with  them  in  their  roof  garden,  among  the 
smutted  ferns  and  rockery  plants ;  and  Mr.  Stipple 
would  sometimes  join  them,  and  discourse  with 

244 


THE  KING  COPHETUA 

equal  ecstasy  about  the  stars,  and  the  long  lines 
of  light  which  represented  the  radiating  streets. 

And  they  would  have  supper  together  afterwards, 
a  supper  very  unlike  the  sparse  meal  which  had 
been  on  the  table  the  first  evening  Dick  Verrinder 
came,  for,  despite  their  protestations,  the  hampers 
from  Fortnum  and  Mason's  continued  to  arrive, 
and  the  things  had  to  be  eaten. 

There  were  expeditions  too  on  Saturdays  and 
Sundays  when  Muriel  was  free,  when  they  took 
the  train  into  the  country  as  far  as  they  liked,  and 
lit  down  somewhere  and  had  a  meal  at  an  inn,  and 
sat  in  the  inn-garden  till  the  stars  came  out. 

The  long  hot  summer  had  told  on  Elsie,  despite 
the  alleviations  of  these  latter  days.  She  was 
thinner,  more  transparent  than  any  mortal  thing 
has  a  right  to  be.  Often  she  suffered  from  ex- 
haustion and  was  incapable  even  of  being  carried 
to  the  roof-garden. 

"Marry  me  at  once,"  Dick  Verrinder  said  one 
evening,  when  he  had  found  Muriel  on  the  seat 
where  he  had  recovered  her,  "and  we  will  take 
Elsie  to  the  South  for  the  winter.  Marry  me  for 
Elsie's  sake  if  not  for  mine ;  you  would  marry  me 
for  mine  in  a  little  while.  But  Elsie  has  to  be 
thought  of." 

"  You  are  so  obstinate,"  she  said  with  a  little 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

sob  that  was  half  a  laugh.  "  Don't  you  know  that 
I  would  have  married  you  for  your  own  sake  five 
weeks  ago,  only  I  thought  that  you  had  a  delusion 
and  that  it  must  pass." 

"  Let  us  go  home  and  tell  Elsie,"  he  said.  "  To- 
morrow I  will  get  the  special  licence.  And  you 
must  come  shopping  with  me.  You  won't  be  too 
proud  to  accept  things  from  your  husband." 

"  You  spend  too  much  money,"  she  said,  looking 
at  him  wet-eyed.  "It  is  not  as  though  you  were 
a  rich  man." 

"You  shall  hold  the  purse-strings  presently." 

The  next  day  they  went  to  Bond  Street  and  Ee- 
gent  Street.  By  this  time  Muriel  had  lost  her  tired 
and  dusty  look.  The  radiance,  lost  untimely,  had 
been  coming  back  to  her  cheek  and  her  eye,  the 
grace  to  her  carriage.  She  had  bought  some  thin 
black  stuff  for  a  dress  and  made  it  up  herself  over 
an  old  silk  lining.  Her  wide  hat  of  black  chip 
suited  her  violet  eyes  and  the  pale  gold  hair  which 
had  become  so  much  brighter,  more  springy  of 
late.  She  was  a  very  pretty  woman  still.  She 
could  not  help  recognising  it  as  she  saw  herself  in 
the  glasses  of  the  shops,  prettier  perhaps  than  she 
had  ever  been. 

Dick  made  the  most  extravagant  purchases.  The 
long  cloak  of  real  lace  to  her  feet  made  Muriel  turn 
2*6 


THE  KING  COPHETUA 

a  little  pale  when  she  heard  its  pric  e.  There  was 
a  hat  to  match  it  with  beautiful  pink  roses  under 
the  brim. 

"I  want  you  to  be  smart,"  Dick  said,  putting  a 
linger  on  her  lip,  when  they  were  alone  for  a 
minute.  "  I  want  to  take  you  to  see  the  aunts  after 
we  have  lunched.  Do  you  know  that  they  know 
all  about  you.  Aunt  Jemima  has  been  buying 
your  trousseau.  Elsie  helped  me  about  the  sizes. 
They  are  dear  old  bodies  and  are  ready  to  love 
you." 

"  I  suppose  they  are  rich,"  Muriel  thought  to 
herself,  explaining  Dick's  extravagance  by  the 
thought. 

When  the  footman  opened  the  double  doors  of 
the  stately  old  square  house  to  them,  and  they 
went  upstairs  to  the  drawing-room  with  its  three 
long  Georgian  windows  overlooking  the  green 
square,  who  was  there  but  Elsie?  looking  quite 
at  home  between  two  old  ladies,  fat  and  benevolent- 
looking,  who  came  and  gathered  in  turn  the  lace- 
clad  Muriel  to  their  comfortable  breasts. 

"  We  thought  he  was  never  going  to  marry, 
dear,"  said  Aunt  Jemima,  the  elder  of  the  ladies. 
"  We  used  to  call  him  the  woman-hater.  And  to 
think  that  he  was  only  the  most  faithful  of  men 
after  all!" 

247 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

It  seemed  that  the  old  ladies  had  made  friends 
with  Elsie  during  Muriel's  daily  hours  of  absence  : 
and  they  proposed  to  take  charge  of  Elsie  while 
their  nephew  and  his  bride  were  on  their  honey- 
moon. 

"  And  to  be  sure,  my  dear,"  said  Aunt  Jemima, 
who  was  a  much  more  masterful  person  than  her 
sister,  Aunt  Kate,  "we  don't  propose  that  you 
shall  go  back  to  your  lodgings.  It  will  be  much 
more  becoming  that  you  should  be  married  from 
here.  Besides  which  we  are  going  to  be  so  dread- 
fully busy  for  the  next  few  days  that  we  can't  by 
any  manner  of  means  spare  you." 

So  Muriel  had  to  go  round  and  explain  to  the 
parents  of  all  her  pupils  that  she  was  obliged  to 
give  up  her  tuitions.  She  would  do  it  in  that  way 
since  she  was  troubled  because  of  leaving  them  so 
suddenly  before  they  could  provide  a  substitute. 
However  nearly  all  the  parents  were  very  amiable 
about  it,  and  a  little  overawed  perhaps  by  the  fine 
carriage  belonging  to  the  Misses  Verrinder,  and 
the  stately  coachman  and  fat  horses  that  took  her 
from  door  to  door. 

Eor  the  next  few  days  she  seemed  to  be  always 
in  the  hands  of  dressmakers  and  milliners.  By 
this  time  she  had  resigned  herself  to  accepting  all 
the  things  that  were  done  for  her  and  walked  about 

248 


THE  KING  COPHETUA 

like  a  person  in  an  exquisite  dream.  Sometimes 
she  thought  the  fine  clothes  and  the  carriage  and 
all  the  luxury  must  fall  to  pieces  like  the  splendours 
of  a  fairy-tale ;  and  for  herself  she  would  not  have 
greatly  minded  so  long  as  Dick,  her  Fairy  Prince, 
was  left  to  her,  for  by  this  time  she  loved  Dick  as 
greatly  as  ever  the  heart  of  bridegroom  could 
desire. 

On  the  eve  of  their  wedding  she  and  Dick  were 
alone.  By  this  time  all  the  fine  frocks,  etc.,  were 
locked  away  in  travelling  trunks,  excepting  only 
her  wedding-dress,  and  the  beautiful  garments  in 
which  she  was  to  travel. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said  to  her,  "you  have 
never  yet  asked  me  where  we  should  live  when  we 
settle  down  ?  " 

"  You  had  so  many  plans  before  settling  down," 
she  said.  "  And,  after  all,  you  have  hurried  me  so 
that  there  has  been  hardly  time  to  think.  Shall 
we  live  here  ?  I  do  not  think  that  I  mind  greatly 
where  it  is  so  long  as  I  am  with  you." 

He  kissed  her  with  a  flush  of  delight. 

"Could  you  make  your  home  at  Whirlicote 
Hall?"  he  said. 

Hitherto  the  name  had  not  been  spoken  between 
them,  nor  the  name  of  Kalph  Verrinder,  and  now 
she  turned  a  little  pale. 

249 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

"  How  should  we  come  there?  "  she  said.  "  It 
is  your  cousin's  house.  I  have  forgiven  him  long 
ago,  have  learnt  to  be  grateful  to  him  that  he  did 
not  marry  me." 

"  That  is  all  right.  I  too  have  forgiven  him. 
He  died  last  March,  Muriel.  I  am  the  owner  of 
Whiiiicote  in  Norfolk,  and  Portsoken  Manor  in 
Lincolnshire  and  Scales  Hall  in  Surrey.  You 
will  be  Lady  Verrinder.  I  did  not  mean  to  tell 
you  till  to-morrow,  but  the  aunts  said  I  must  do 
it." 

"I  suppose  the  beggar-girl  did  not  mind  taking 
a  crown  from  KingCophetua,"  she  said,  lifting  his 
hand  to  her  cheek.  "After  all  it  is  not  these 
things  that  matter,  since  it  is  your  love  that  is  iny 
crown." 


250 


BILLY  AND  THE  BONNETS. 

EVERY  one  liked  Billy  as  every  one  liked  his  aunt, 
whom  the  golden  youth  generally  were  agreed  to 
call  Mother  Benton.  The  lady  enjoyed  the  enor- 
mous revenues  of  Benton's  Brewery ;  and  since 
she  had  never  given  the  late  Mr.  Benton  an  heir 
or  heiress,  there  was  no  one  for  the  money  to  come 
to  but  her  nephew  Billy.  She  was  the  soul  of 
good-nature,  and  her  good  heart  made  a  lady  of 
her  when  without  it  she  might  have  passed  for  a 
cook.  But  there  could  be  no  real  vulgarity  about 
a  person  who  however  fat  and  red-faced  and  roly- 
poly  and  fond  of  bright  colours  was  yet  overflowing 
with  the  milk  of  human  kindness,  and  so  kind  that 
she  had  learnt  a  simple  delicacy  in  the  manner  of 
performing  her  kindness. 

Billy  adored  his  aunt.  He  was  a  fat,  white-faced 
youth,  with  small  eyes  and  shapeless  features  who 
gave  one  the  impression  of  always  being  half -asleep. 
His  brother  officers  would  assure  you  that  Billy 
was  really  quite  wide  awake,  not  such  a  fool  as  he 

251 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

looked,  and  other  things  of  the  same  kind,  and 
generally  wound  up  by  adding  that  he  was  no  end 
of  a  good  fellow,  which  was  true.  Billy  was  quite 
as  good  a  fellow  as  his  aunt. 

He  belonged  to  a  very  smart  regiment  which 
has  usually  at  least  a  portion  of  its  quarters  in 
town,  and  is  popularly  supposed  to  exist  for  orna- 
mental purposes,  although  in  times  of  war  it  has 
occasionally  disproved  that  idea.  He  had  never 
given  his  aunt  a  moment's  reason  for  anxiety 
about  him.  At  his  preparatory  school,  at  Eton, 
at  Sandhurst,  he  had  been  invariably  honest  and 
well-liked,  although  his  best  friend  couldn't  say  he 
had  been  exactly  brilliant.  But  then  what  did 
Billy  want  with  brilliancy,  seeing  that  he  had  been 
born  with  a  gold  spoon  in  his  mouth  ? 

Mrs.  Benton's  one  desire  unsatisfied  was  to  see 
Billy  married  and  well  married.  The  desire  to  have 
Billy's  son  in  her  arms  was  a  corollary  to  the 
first.  She  wanted  to  see  the  succession  to  the 
Brewery  assured ;  that  once  done  she  was  fond  of 
saying  that  she  would  be  ready  to  depart. 

She  and  Billy  quite  understood  each  other. 

"  She  must  have  birth,  Billy,"  Mrs.  Benton  had 
often  said  to  him.  "  It's  just  the  one  thing  we 
lack.  If  she  has  birth  I  don't  care  if  she  hasn't  a 
second  garment  to  her  back." 


BILLY  AND  THE  BONNETS 

Billy  would  assure  the  aunt  that  he  quite  agreed 
with  her.  Still  he  was  slow  to  give  her  her 
heart's  desire.  Numbers  of  the  young  women  of 
the  aristocracy,  unexceptionable  in  every  way,  were 
ready  to  share  Billy's  great  fortune.  But  somehow 
Billy's  little  affairs  always  hung  fire ;  and  year  after 
year  Mrs.  Benton's  going  in  peace  was  postponed. 

One  day  Billy  was  taking  a  short  cut  from 
Piccadilly  to  Portman  Square,  where  Mrs.  Benton's 
great  town-house  was. 

He  was  passing  through  a  quiet  street  nearly 
given  over  to  milliners,  modistes,  and  other  persons 
whose  province  in  life  it  is  to  make  ladies  beau- 
tiful. Something  drew  him  to  stand  before  a 
bonnet-shop.  He  had  never  done  such  a  thing  in 
his  life  before,  at  least  when  he  was  alone,  but 
Fate  was  working  out  her  designs  with  him. 

Suddenly  between  an  osprey  and  a  big  bow  of 
panne  he  saw  a  face  that,  as  he  described  it  to  him- 
self, knocked  him  silly.  It  wasn't  that  it  was  so 
beautiful.  Billy  had  run  the  gauntlet  of  many 
kinds  of  beauty.  It  was  a  girl's  face,  pale,  with 
very  blue  eyes.  It  was  framed  in  pale  fair  hair ; 
silky  like  a  child's.  The  eyelids  long  and  half- 
closed  gave  the  eyes  a  languishing  look.  The 
mouth  was  thin  and  humorous,  the  lips  faintly 
scarlet. 

298 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

Billy  stood  an  instant  looking  into  the  eyes, 
feeling,  as  he  said  afterwards,  as  though  he  had 
been  shot  through  the  heart.  Then  he  lifted  his 
hat,  and  passed  on.  But  after  that  he  took  to 
haunting  the  quiet  street  and  Madame  Elodie's 
windows. 

He  didn't  know  in  the  least  what  to  do.  Billy 
had  never  been  a  Lothario.  His  feelings  towards 
the  face  in  the  milliner's  shop  were  not  at  all 
Lothario-like.  He  wanted  to  know  the  owner  of 
the  face  as  he  knew  the  young  ladies  in  Park  Lane 
or  Grosvenor  Square.  But  how  to  set  about  it  ? 

At  last  the  thing  was  done  for  him.  One  evening 
of  summer  twilight,  when  Billy  ought  to  have 
been  dressing  for  a  particularly  smart  dinner  but 
on  the  contrary  was  haunting  the  grey  street  where 
the  blinds  had  just  been  pulled  down  in  front  of 
the  hats  and  costumes,  the  little  door  by  the  side 
of  Madame  Elodie's  shop  opened,  and  there  came 
out  the  face  of  his  dreams.  It  was  under  a  soft 
white  hat  with  blue  convolvulus  in  it ;  it  sur- 
mounted a  long  blue  coat  which  Billy  would  not 
have  found  amiss  in  his  own  world. 

The  girl  was  not  alone.  She  was  keeping  very 
close  to  a  large,  red-faced  girl,  with  a  much  more 
flamboyant  taste  in  costume,  who  looked  a  person 
of  character  and  decision.  As  they  passed  close  to 

254 


BILLY  AND  THE  BONNETS 

Billy,  who  had  drawn  himself  back  in  the  shadow 
of  the  shop-fronts,  the  red-faced  girl  suddenly  pulled 
up  sharp  in  front  of  him.  He  noticed  the  other 
girl  tug  at  her  sleeve  in  a  terrified  way.  But  the 
red-faced  girl  was  not  to  be  hindered. 

"I  say,"  she  said  to  Billy.  "You're  straight 
aren't  you?  " 

She  pronounced  it  "strite,"  but  I  shan't  repro- 
duce the  dreary  pronunciation. 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Billy,  lifting  his  hat. 

" Because  if  you  aren't,"  she  said,  "you  may 
just  hook  it.  Violet  is  not  one  of  the  wrong  sort." 

Billy  was  dreadfully  disturbed,  quite  as  much  as 
if  this  coarse  remark  had  been  made  before  the 
most  innocent  girl  of  his  own  class.  He  saw  the 
cheeks  of  the  girl  who  had  been  called  "Violet," 
flush  with  a  painful  red,  and  then  fade  to  more 
than  their  usual  whiteness.  He  began  to  pour 
out  an  incoherent  disclaimer  of  anything  but  the 
utmost  respect  for  Miss  Violet.  If  she  desired  it 
he  would  go  away  and  never  come  back  again. 

"  Stow  that,"  said  the  red-faced  young  woman. 
"I  knew  you  were  straight  the  minute  I  set  eyes 
on  you.  If  I  didn't,  catch  me  encouraging  you, 
young  man.  Well,  you  may  come  along.  This 
is  my  young  man,  Mr.  William  Sanders."  A 
fourth  person  had  now  joined  the  group,  who  re- 

255 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

marked  to  Billy,  following  the  introduction,  that 
he  was  his  servant,  sir. 

"And  now  where  are  you  two  gents  going  to 
stand  treat  to  ?  "  said  the  red-faced  girl,  whose  name 
Billy  presently  discovered  to  be  Clara.  "We've 
got  to  be  in  at  half -past  ten.  A  beastly  shame  I  call 
it.  Violet  here  is  all  for  grass  and  trees.  But  I 
tells  her  she'll  have  to  put  it  off  till  Saturday.  I 
vote  for  Earl's  Court  and  a  snack  of  something 
there." 

Presently  Billy  found  himself  to  his  amazement 
on  top  of  a  bus  going  west  through  the  lighted 
streets.  He  remembered  dimly  that  he  was  due 
at  dinner  in  Berkeley  Square,  but  he  was  not  in  a 
mood  to  have  his  perfect  contentment  disturbed  by 
such  a  trifle  as  a  broken  engagement. 

The  long  line  of  lamps  in  the  delicate  summer 
haze,  stretching  away  by  the  trees  of  the  Green 
Park,  marked  the  way  to  Paradise  for  Billy.  Stars 
came  out  overhead.  The  people  on  the  bus  talked 
in  whispers.  They  were  mostly  couples  with  their 
arms  about  each  other.  Billy  and  Miss  Violet  sat 
in  front,  separated  from  their  companions ;  they 
might  almost  have  been  alone. 

At  first  they  were  silent ;  presently  they  became 
a  little  more  intimate,  and  the  girl  referred  shyly 
to  having  seen  Billy's  face  between  the  bonnets. 

256 


BILLY  AND  THE  BONNETS 

"  I  never  meant  to  have  told  Clara,"  she  mur- 
mured, "but  she  found  out  somehow.  And  one 
day  she  had  a  long  look  at  you  from  the  other 
window.  And  she  said  you  could  be  trusted.  But 
I  never  supposed  she  was  going  to  speak  to  you." 

"I'm  very  glad  she  did,"  said  Billy. 

"  And,  oh,  please,  you  mustn't  think  her  vulgar, 
because  she's  so  kind.  She  looks  after  me,  and  is 
quite  jealous  if  I  talk  to  the  other  girls." 

"I  should  be  just  the  same  myself,"  said  Billy. 
"But  I  shouldn't  think  of  thinking  Miss  Clara 
vulgar.  I  think  it's  awfully  good  of  her  to  look 
after  you,  you  know,  and  ...  to  ...  to  keep  people 
off — undesirable  people,  you  know." 

"  Oh  she  doesn't  let  me  know  a  soul,  except 
William  Sanders  ;  and  he's  really  so  wrapt  up 
in  Clara  that  he's  a  part  of  her.  He's  a  most  re- 
spectable young  man,  a  green-grocer's  manager. 
When  Clara's  married  she's  going  to  live  at 
Tooting." 

There  was  a  suffocated  sound  in  Miss  Violet's 
voice  as  though  she  was  enjoying  a  huge  joke  all 
to  herself,  which  made  Billy  smile  indulgently  at 
her  in  the  darkness.  He  was  to  become  well  ac- 
quainted with  that  sound  in  her  voice  in  the  time 
to  come.  She  had  not  her  humorous  mouth  for 
nothing. 

17  257 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

Presently  they  were  at  Earl's  Court,  and  after 
they  had  had  "a  snack,"  which  Billy  insisted  on 
standing ;  it  was  really  the  best  dinner  Earl's  Court 
could  produce,  and  they  all  did  full  justice  to  it ; 
they  sat  in  as  secluded  a  place  in  the  gardens  as 
they  could  find.  But  that  was  not  very  secluded, 
and  Billy  repressed  an  inclination  to  suggest  two 
hansoms  for  going  home,  since  the  bus  gave  better 
opportunities  for  conversation  and  he  was  quite 
hungry  for  the  murmur  of  the  soft  voice  at  his  ears, 
with  the  stifled  merriment  never  far  away  from  it. 

The  drive  home  was  even  better  than  the  one 
out,  since  the  friendship  had  grown  so  much. 
Under  cover  of  the  darkness  Billy  kept  touching 
the  blue  cloak  with  reverential  tenderness  and  felt 
the  contact  with  it  thrill  through  him  with  a  shock 
of  delight. 

Miss  Violet  was  very  frank  about  herself.  She 
had  lived  with  her  parents  and  brothers  and  sisters 
in  an  Oxfordshire  village ;  but  they  were  so  poor 
that  she  had  to  do  something  to  earn  a  little  money. 
Her  name  was  Hope,  Violet  Hope.  Her  great 
ambition  was  some  day  to  have  a  bonnet-shop  of 
her  own. 

Then  Billy  told  her  his  name  and  made  her 
guess  at  his  occupation.  She  made  two  or  three 
guesses,  with  the  stifled  merriment  in  her  voice, 


BILLY  AND  THE  BONNETS 

A  shop-walker.  No ;  she  had  guesf^d  that  because 
he  was  so  tall  and  straight.  A  hairdresser ;  Billy 
pulled  a  face  in  the  darkness,  and  felt  her  tremble 
at  his  side. 

"No,  a  Guardsman,"  he  blurted  out,  anxious  to 
prevent  any  more  hurts  to  his  vanity. 

"  I  knew  you  were  a  soldier,"  she  said,  as  though 
suddenly  repentant.  "Papa  ...  is  a  soldier.  I 
only  guessed  those  things  for  a  joke.  But  a 
Guardsman,  how  nice!  On  furlough,  I  suppose, 
since  you're  not  in  uniform  ?  " 

"Yes;   on  furlough,"  said  Billy  mendaciously. 

"Oh!" 

She  seemed  about  to  burst  out  with  something 
and  then  stopped. 

"Goon,  please,"  he  said,  bending  his  head  to 
her. 

"  I  was  only  thinking  how  nice  it  would  be  to 
walk  out  with  a  Guardsman  in  uniform.  The  other 
girls  would  be  so  jealous." 

"That  reminds  me,"  said  Billy;  it  had  never 
been  really  out  of  his  head  all  the  time;  "would 
you  and  Miss  Clara,  and,  of  course,  Mr.  William 
Sanders,  come  into  the  country  with  me  on 
Saturday  afternoon  ?  I  know  an  inn  in  a  delight- 
fully secluded  part  of  Surrey  where  we  could  have 
tea.  Will  you  come  ?  " 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

"  I  should  love  to.     But  can  you ?  " 

"I  can  get  leave." 

"  And  — won't  it  be  very  expensive  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  can  stand  it." 

"  I  suppose  Guardsmen  are  very  well  paid  ?  " 

He  could  feel  her  eyes  big  on  him  in  the  dark- 
ness. 

"  We  are  pretty  well  off  as  a  rule,"  he  said 
lightly. 

He  thought  the  week  endless  till  Saturday  should 
come.  But  it  came  at  last,  and  turned  out  an 
exquisite  afternoon.  Two  o'clock  found  Billy  at 
Victoria.  He  had  arranged  with  the  guard,  before 
the  rest  of  the  party  arrived,  for  a  first-class 
carriage  to  themselves.  Violet  was  in  white  with  a 
bunch  of  pansies  at  her  belt,  and  lavender  ribbons 
in  her  big  hat.  Billy  thought  her  lovelier  than 
ever.  "What  toffs  to  be  sure!"  cried  Clara,  re- 
splendent in  a  hat  trimmed  with  cherries. 

Billy  didn't  mind  Clara's  looks  or  her  language, 
or  Mr.  William  Sanders'  cheap  cigar  and  broad 
stripes.  He  was  so  completely  swamped  in  love 
by  this  time  that  he  had  neither  eyes  nor  ears  for 
any  one  but  Violet.  It  was  Billy's  first  love  affair, 
and  he  had  taken  it  badly.  Now  and  again  he  had 
a  little  qualm  on  the  subject  of  "the  old  girl,"  as 
he  called  Mrs.  Benton ;  but  that  was  soon  for- 

360 


BILLY  AND  THE  BONNETS 

gotten  in  the  delirium  of  looking  at  and  listening 
to  Violet. 

They  strolled  through  grassy  lanes  to  the  inn, 
where  they  had  a  good  country  tea,  with  cold 
ham  and  eggs  and  crisp  green  lettuce  and  honey. 
After  it  was  over  they  had  still  a  couple  of  hours 
to  spare  before  they  need  make  for  the  train. 

They  left  Clara  and  Mr.  Sanders  flinging  hay 
at  each  other  in  a  hay-field  and  strolled  on  into  a 
wood.  They  found  a  delightful  place  to  sit  down, 
in  a  green  shade,  where  the  only  sound  was  the 
summer  hum  of  insects  and  the  singing  of  birds, 
and  the  falling  of  a  little  stream  far  below.  There 
was  a  tree-trunk  for  Violet.  Billy  in  his  immacu- 
late grey  frock-coat  and  light  trousers  flung  himself 
on  the  moss  at  her  feet.  While  she  was  settling 
herself  with  a  soft  frou-frou,  he  surreptitiously 
kissed  the  hem  of  her  skirt. 

He  had  been  falling  in  love  all  those  weeks 
when  he  had  hung  about  Madame  Elodie's  shop- 
windows.  Now  he  was  fathoms  deep  in  it.  He 
was  going  to  marry  Violet  if  she  would  have  him 
and  as  soon  as  might  be.  It  would  be  hard  on 
"the  old  girl,"  but  she  was  so  kind  and  loving,  he 
thought  wistfully,  she  would  forgive  him  when 
she  knew  how  his  heart  was  in  it.  Besides,  she 
couldn't  stand  out  against  Violet  for  long.  Billy 

261 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

was  no  wiser  than  thousands  of  unwise  lovers 
before  him.  He  was  grateful  to  those  unknown 
people  in  the  Oxfordshire  village  who  had  brought 
her  up  with  the  speech  and  manners  of  a  lady. 
But  if  it  had  been  otherwise,  if  it  had  been  possible 
to  imagine  Violet  otherwise,  he  would  still  have 
loved  her,  have  let  every  other  consideration  go 
for  her  sake.  A  look  at  her  face,  demure  in  the 
shadow  of  her  hat,  made  even  the  thought  of  "  the 
old  girl  "  vanish.  He  leant  back  till  his  face  was 
against  her  skirt. 

"Violet,"  he  said,  "I  love  you,  darling.  And 

"  his  voice  was  full  of  delighted  amazement — 

"you  love  me  !  " 

He  drew  her  face  down  to  him  and  kissed  it 
rapturously,  and  she  did  not  prevent  him,  rather 
yielded  herself  to  him.  He  smelt  her  crushed 
pansies  by  his  cheek. 

"  You  will  have  to  marry  me,"  he  said. 

"It  is  very  soon,"  she  whispered,  "and  you 

know  nothing  about  me.  And 1  know  nothing 

about  you,  Billy  dear." 

He  laughed  out. 

"  I  am  perfectly  respectable,"  he  said,  "  and 

quite  able  to  maintain  a  wife.  But 1  have 

the  dearest  old  aunt.  She  had  other  views  for  me. 
You  will  have  to  placate  her,  darling." 

262 


BILLY  AND  THE  BONNETS 

"And  you,"  she  said,  "you  will  have  to  please 
my  uncle.  You've  no  idea  of  how  imperious  he  is. 
Poor  Papa  and  Mamma !  I  can  twist  them 
about  my  little  finger.  But  Uncle  Gran !  You've 
no  idea  what  a  terrible  person  he  is." 

"  I  hope  he!ll  let  me  down  easy,  be  satisfied  with 
me,  I  mean,"  said  Billy,  playing  in  an  infatuated 
way  with  a  loose  tress  of  Violet's  hair. 

"  He's  quite  capable  of  sending  you  about  your 
business." 

"  In  that  case  we  should  just  have  to  disregard 
him,  sweetheart,  shouldn't  we?  We  can't  let 
anybody  stand  in  our  way." 

"It  would  never  do  to  displease  Uncle  Gran. 
And  then  Aunt  Min.  I  look  to  Aunt  Min  to  finance 
my  bonnet  shop,  and  to  get  me  customers." 

"  You  don't  suppose  I  am  going  to  let  you  keep 
a  bonnet  shop !  " 

"Oh,  Billy,  you'll  have  to.  You  don't  know 
how  much  money  is  to  be  made  out  of  it." 

"  I  have  plenty  of  money." 

"  For  yourself.  You  can't  imagine  what  luxuri- 
ous tastes  I  have.  That  was  what  made  me  think 
of  the  bonnet  shop.  I  want  heaps  of  money.  My 
sisters  are  content  to  sit  at  home  genteelly.  They 
are  horrified  at  me.  You've  no  idea  what  a  money- 
loving  little  wretch  I  am." 

263 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

"  So  long  as  you  didn't  think  of  marrying  for 
money." 

"I  did,  even  that,  before  I  knew  you,  Billy. 
Now  I  should  never  marry  any  one  else,  no  matter 
how  rich  he  was.  I  shall  run  the  bonnet  shop  for 
both  of  us.  You  don't  know  how  much  money  it 
will  bring  us  in." 

"  You  darling !" 

"I'll  ask  Madame  for  leave  next  Sunday  and 
take  you  down  to  Oxfordshire  to  see  the  family. 
Papa  and  Mamma  are  dears.  You  won't  need  to 
be  the  least  bit  afraid  of  them." 

"  You  think  not  ?  " 

Billy  looked  quite  anxious. 

"  They've  always  let  me  do  everything  I  wanted 
to  do." 

"  Just  like  Aunt  Susan  with  me." 

A  little  cloud  fell  over  his  face. 

"  But  Uncle  Gran  is  a  terror.  You  won't  mind 
if  he's  rude,  Billy.  He  thinks  so  extravagantly 
abouj  his  family.  And  of  course,  dear,  though 
you're  a  gentleman,  still  a  private  in  the  Guards ! 
What  made  you  enlist,  Billy  ?  Was  it  to  fight  ?  " 

"As  a  matter  of  fact  I  didn't  enlist,"  Billy 
stammered  over  his  confession.  "I — I — went  in 
in  the  ordinary  way.  I'm  — in  fact  — I'm  Captain 
Benton." 

264 


BILLY  AND  THE  BONNETS 

"  Then  Uncle  Gran's  your  Colonel,  so  now  you 
know  how  dreadful  he  can  be." 

"  Lord  Grandison." 

"Yes;  Lord  Grandison.  He'd  have  fits  if  he 
knew  where  I  was.  But  we  are  really  very  poor. 
I  didn't  see  that  having  Lord  Grandison  for  an 
uncle  made  up  for  the  money  we  were  always 
wanting.  So  I  persuaded  Mamma  first — if  you 
have  Mamma  you  can  always  have  Papa — to  let 
me  learn  bonnet-making.  What's  the  good  of 
having  a  beauty-aunt  if  she  doesn't  give  you  a  lift 
some  way  or  other.  Lady  Grandison  has  only  to 
wear  my  bonnets  to  make  me  the  fashion.  Billy, 
don't  tell  me  you're  so  disgustingly  rich  that  I 
shall  have  to  give  up  my  dreams  of  a  bonnet- 
shop?" 

"  You  shall  make  them  for  pleasure,  dear.  I 
don't  think  I  could  really  consent  to  any  addition 
to  my  income." 

It  is  no  use  recording  the  other  foolish  things 
these  young  people  said,  as  in  fact  the  conversation 
after  a  time  became  rather  incoherent.  Suffice  it 
to  say  that  Lord  Grandison,  though  he  wouldn't 
acknowledge  it,  was  really  as  well  pleased  with  his 
niece's  choice  as  Mrs.  Benton  with  her  nephew's. 
There  was  no  lack  of  acknowledgment  about  Mrs. 
Benton,  however.  She  is  still  singing  her  Nuno 

265 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

Dimittis,  although  Billy  has  been  a  Benedict  these 
five  years  back,  and  Billy's  son  reigns  more  auto- 
cratically over  his  great-aunt's  heart  than  ever 
his  father  did. 

"Cute  beggar,  Billy!  "  say  his  brother  officers, 
"to  unearth  that  charming  niece  of  old  Gran's, 
whom  he  had  buried  away  somewhere  in  the 
depths  of  the  country.  And  who  could  have  sup- 
posed what  he  was  up  to  when  he  used  to  disappear 
and  turn  up  looking  moonier  than  ever  ?  " 

Clara,  Mrs.  Sanders,  runs  a  very  smart  bonnet- 
shop.  It  has  been  rumoured  that  the  Hon.  Mrs. 
Benton  has  a  share  in  it ;  but  that  is  not  really  so. 
Only  now  and  again  she  spares  half  an  hour  to 
give  Clara  her  ideas  for  new  hats  and  bonnets. 
And  judging  by  her  smart  clientele,  Madame  Clara 
profits  by  a  taste  more  exquisite  than  her  own. 


266 


THE  OLD  HEEO. 

IT  was  about  five  o'clock  of  a  winter  afternoon 
and  old  Major  Lacy  was  sitting  with  his  feet  in  a 
pail  of  hot  water  and  mustard  before  the  dreary 
lodging-house  fire. 

Outside  it  was  dark,  except  for  the  gas-lamps 
that  flared  in  the  wind  along  the  deserted  sea- 
front.  The  Lacys  took  their  change  to  the  sea 
in  winter  when  no  one  else  wanted  the  lodgings 
and  they  were  cheap.  In  summer  they  stayed  in 
town  for  the  same  reason. 

The  lodgings  were  draughty  in  winter,  and  the 
Major  had  taken  cold.  Selina,  his  eldest  daughter, 
to  whom  her  father  was  moon  and  sun,  had  grown 
alarmed  about  him  and  had  insisted  on  his  going 
to  bed  early  after  the  preliminary  foot-bath.  A 
little  kettle  was  singing  on  the  fire.  The  Major 
was  to  have  a  hot  drink  to  assist  his  cure ;  a  bottle 
of  rum,  sugar,  a  lemon  and  a  glass  stood  on  a 
shabby  little  tray  on  the  table. 

267 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

Selina  was  kneeling  in  front  of  her  father,  a 
bath-towel  across  her  extended  hands,  ready  to 
wrap  the  feet  in  when  they  should  emerge  from 
the  pail.  She  had  a  reverential  air  as  though  the 
feet  were  something  sacred.  Since  she  was  a  girl, 
a  woman  rather,  who  had  the  need  to  adore  some- 
thing, it  was  as  well  she  had  such  a  father  as  old 
Hugh  Lacy  to  lavish  her  heart's  worship  on. 

Despite  the  foot-bath,  despite  the  shabby, 
stained  dressing-gown,  despite  the  unlovely  lodg- 
ing-house surroundings,  to  the  person  of  discrim- 
ination Hugh  Lacy  would  have  given  assurance 
of  the  hero  he  was.  His  white  hair  fell  in  leonine 
fashion  about  his  red,  sunburnt  old  face ;  his  eyes, 
yet  blue  and  kindly,  and  innocent  in  their  normal 
expression,  could  at  moments  have  the  low  lustre 
and  flash  of  steel ;  his  voice  yet  could  ring  com- 
mandingly  when  occasion  required  it. 

Into  the  mean  room,  lit  by  the  dim  lamp  which 
Selina  had  toiled  in  vain  to  make  more  efficient, 
there  came  suddenly  a  magnificent  young  gentle- 
man. The  stupid  little  lodging-house  servant 
ushered  him  in  with  a  horrible  travesty  of  his 
name.  Then,  as  though  discovering  her  blunder, 
she  retired  precipitately. 

For  a  moment  there  was  absolute  silence  in  the 
room.  Then  the  young  gentleman,  who  was  clad 

268 


THE  OLD  HEEO 

in  the  garments  of  Savile  Eow,  advanced,  blushing 
deeply  and  holding  out  his  hand. 

"  My  father,  Sir  Valentine  Dumaresq,"  he  said, 
"  asked  me  to  call,  sir,  and  present  his  kind 
remembrances  to  you.  I  am  stationed  at  the 
Seaford  Barracks  with  my  regiment,  the  — th 
Hussars,  and  only  discovered  yesterday  where  to 
find  you.  My  father  had  some  trouble  to  dis- 
cover your  address." 

The  old  soldier's  face  had  lit  up  during  the 
speech.  He  had  forgotten  the  slight  awkward- 
ness he  had  felt  at  the  strange  young  man's  in- 
trusion on  his  private  moments.  He  took  Captain 
Dumaresq's  hand  and  shook  it  heartily. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  welcome  a  son  of  Sir  Valen- 
tine's," he  said.  "  A  kind,  handsome,  generous 
fellow  and  a  fine  soldier.  To  think  he  should 
have  remembered  me  over  all  these  years.  Sit 
down,  sit  down,  Captain  Dumaresq.  Selina,  my 
girl, — my  eldest  daughter ;  Selina,  Captain  Dumar- 
esq;— take  away  all  this  rubbish.  You  are  too 
young  a  man  and  too  old  to  know  how  the  women 
can  coddle  one.  You  forget  one  end  of  your  life  and 
have  not  yet  arrived  at  the  other.  Dear  me  !  and 
how  is  Sir  Valentine  ?  And  how  did  he  know  I 
was  at  Seaford  ?  I  thought  he  had  lost  sight  of 
me  long  ago ;  it  is  not  easy  to  lose  sight  of  him, 

269 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

What  will  you  take,  Captain  Dumaresq  ?  I  was 
about  to  have  some  hot  rum  for  my  cold.  You 
won't  join  me?  A  cup  of  tea  then?  Ah,  we 
never  drank  tea  when  I  was  a  young  fellow." 

Leonard  Dumaresq  looked  down  at  Selina's 
bent  head,  as  she  dried  her  father's  feet  with  the 
bath-towel,  curiously.  It  was  a  world  he  had 
never  entered  before,  this  dreary  ugly  world  in 
which  old  soldiers  took  foot-baths  by  the  sitting- 
room  fire  and  were  waited  on  by  plain-looking 
daughters.  She  was  very  plain ;  dark,  lumpish 
features ;  too  much  hair  for  the  size  of  her  head. 
Her  hands  in  the  lamplight  showed  thin  and 
discoloured;  her  ill-fitting  gown  of  rough  grey 
tweed  made  her  dull  complexion  more  undecided. 
Her  eyes  were  hidden  from  him.  And  she  was 
not  young, — thirty  or  perhaps  older. 

He  looked  away  from  her  to  the  old  leonine 
face. 

"  My  father  has  often  said  to  me,"  he  said,  with 
a  shyness  that  became  him,  " '  Leonard,  my  lad, 
if  you  are  ever  within  reasonable  distance  of  my 
old  comrade,  Hugh  Lacy,  it  must  be  your  proud 
privilege  to  see  and  know  him.  He  is  the  finest 
soldier  I  have  ever  known.' " 

"Bless  me,  did  Sir  Valentine  say  that?"  the 
old  hero  exclaijned  delightedly,  "  I'm  sure  the 

270 


THE  OLD  HEEO 

Queen  lost  a  very  fine  soldier  wh^n  your  father 
gave  up  soldiering.  He  was  bound  to  shine 
wherever  he  was.  Look  at  him  now,  a  Minister 
of  the  Queen,  when  others  of  us  are  laid  on  the 
shelf,  fit  for  nothing  but  to  fret  our  hearts  out." 

A  good  many  things  concerning  the  old  man  were 
passing  through  Leonard  Dumaresq's  mind.  It 
was  true  that  Hugh  Lacy  was  a  man  who  had 
made  history.  By  sheer  magnificent  dash  and 
courage  and  resource  he  had  risen  from  a  humble 
position  to  be  Major  in  a  crack  regiment.  He  had 
had  a  drab  little  wife,  supposed  by  his  brother- 
officers  to  have  been  a  sewing-maid  or  the  dress- 
maker of  the  village  where  he  had  been  born.  As 
a  matter  of  fact  she  was  neither,  but  the  daughter 
of  a  poor  -parson.  But  no  one  was  interested 
enough  to  find  that  out  except  one  of  the  subalterns 
who  looked  up  to  "  old  Lacy  "  with  far  more  dis- 
cerning eyes  than  the  rest.  Mrs.  Lacy  had  always 
lived  in  some  shabby  genteel  street  of  the  town 
where  the  regiment  happened  to  be  stationed,  and 
never  emerged  save  when  she  could  not  help  it. 
If  she  had  been  the  sewing-maid  or  the  village 
dressmaker,  she  could  not  have  been  shyer  of  the 
magnificent  butterflies  who  were  the  feminine 
friends  and  belongings  of  the  Major's  brother- 
officers. 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

When  Sir  Valentine  most  unwillingly  had 
given  up  his  sword  for  the  country-gentleman's 
plough-share  he  had  acquired  a  stock  of  unsatisfied 
longings  and  ambitions,  which  perhaps  in  time  he 
had  transmitted  to  his  son.  Anyhow  Leonard  Du- 
maresq  was  so  devoted  to  his  soldiering,  so  much 
in  love  with  the  hard  work  of  it,  that  he  excited 
an  amusement  that  was  almost  contempt  in  the 
minds  of  the  gilded  youth  of  the  regiment. 

He  was  so  much  in  love  with  it  that  presently 
he  forgot  the  dinginess  of  his  surroundings,  the 
shabbiness  of  the  old  Major,  the  oily  fumes  of 
the  rum  punch,  in  listening  to  and  looking  at 
the  finest  soldier  his  father  had  ever  known. 

Selina  had  brought  him  his  tea  ;  she  had  taken 
the  little  tray  and  disappeared,  and  when  she 
brought  it  again  it  had  been  spread  with  a  certain 
daintiness  which  was  at  war  with  its  surround- 
ings. 

Captain  Dumaresq  hardly  noticed.  He  was 
absorbed  in  listening  to  the  old  man.  But  un- 
consciously he  drank  several  cups  of  tea  and  ac- 
counted for  a  whole  plateful  of  thin  brown  bread 
and  butter,  which  was  a  tribute  to  Selina's  house- 
keeping. 

Presently  Selina's  younger  sisters,  Maud  and 
Betty,  came  in.  They  had  been  forewarned  at  the 

272 


THE  OLD  HBEO 

threshold  by  the  little  servant  of  the  grand  visitor 
who  had  fallen  upon  the  humble  domicile  like  a 
creature -from  another  sphere.  So  they  had  put 
on  their  best  to  do  honour  to  the  occasion.  They 
were  rosy-checked,  blue-eyed  girls.  Captain  Du- 
maresq  had  an  uncomfortable  feeling  of  having 
seen  them  about  on  the  esplanade  and  in  the 
streets  of  the  towns,  laughing  and  chattering 
rather  more  than  was  desirable  with  various  heed- 
less young  subalterns  from  the  garrison  town 
across  the  bay  from  Seaford.  If  he  had  thought 
of  them  at  all  then  it  was  to  suppose  that  they 
were  shop-girls  or  dressmakers'  assistants.  He 
felt  a  vague  annoyance  now  to  find  that  they 
were  Hugh  Lacy's  daughters. 

They  put  Selina  more  in  the  shade  than  ever. 
Their  gaily  beribboned  blouses  with  a  deal  of 
transparency  at  the  neck,  bought  for  three  and 
elevenpence  three-farthings  in  Bayswater,  their 
cheap  pearls  and  amber,  their  bangles  and  Mizpah 
rings,  showed  festive  by  comparison  with  Selina's 
colourless  garments.  They  had  fair  hair  fluffed 
out  over  obvious  wire  frames.  They  joined  in  the 
conversation  freely,  and  were  plainly  exhilarated 
by  Leonard  Dumaresq's  presence.  Hitherto  their 
acquaintance  had  at  its  finest  been  restricted  to 
young  officers  of  the  line. 

18  278 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

Their  coming  spoilt  the  afternoon  for  the 
visitor.  He  had  been  forgetting  the  dinginess  of 
the  surroundings  in  listening  to  the  hero.  Now 
the  magic  had  fallen  from  his  eyes  and  once  more 
he  was  conscious  of  the  sickly  fumes  of  the  rum, 
the  smell  of  the  cheap  oil-lamp,  the  wet  ring 
which  the  pail  had  left  on  the  dusty  hearth-rug, 
the  peeling  American  cloth  table-cover,  the  stain 
of  grease  on  the  old  hero's  dressing-gown. 

He  stood  up  to  go.  He  was  an  amiable  person, 
and  had  not  been  aware  till  this  moment  of  any 
unusual  fastidiousness.  Now  the  girls  irritated 
him,  good-natured,  simple  creatures  in  whom  it 
was  evident  the  old  hero  found  nothing  amiss. 
Nor  would  he  have  if  they  had  been  as  he  had 
supposed  them,  dressmakers  or  shop-girls ;  only — 
they  were  as  discordant  with  Hugh  Lacy  as  was 
the  lodging-house  parlour.  Poverty  had  no  re- 
pulsion for  Dumaresq ;  but  it  ought  to  be  clean, 
simple,  austere  poverty.  The  manage  in  which  he 
had  found  his  father's  hero,  the  hero  of  his  own 
boyhood,  jarred  on  him  like  some  horrible  discord. 

As  he  walked  away  along  the  wet  esplanade, 
and  took  a  boat  to  row  him  across  to  the  other 
side  where  his  barracks  lay,  he  had  no  definite 
intention  of  returning.  Indeed,  he  had  a  very  de- 
finite intention  not  to  return.  He  did  not  want 

274 


THE  OLD  HEEO 

to  see  those  beribboned  girls,  to  hear  their  Cockney 
accents  again. 

But  oddly  enough,  in  the  days  that  followed, 
the  memory  of  the  girls  and  the  things  that  had 
annoyed  him  faded  away,  and  the  face  of  the 
old  soldier  emerged  from  the  obscurity  of  the 
dim  lodging-house  parlour,  with  that  light  of 
valour  in  it  which  drew  him  as  the  musician  is 
drawn  by  immortal  music,  the  poet  by  great 
poetry. 

Not  a  week  had  gone  by  till  once  again  he  found 
himself  walking  down  the  wet  esplanade  to  the 
dingy  lodging-house.  Indeed  he  was  conscious  of 
a  great  expectation  as  he  walked  up  the  steps  and 
rang  the  tinkling  bell.  The  blind  was  down  over 
the  parlour-window,  but  he  could  see  on  it  the 
shadow  of  the  old  soldier's  head.  It  was  the 
head  of  a  lion.  There  was  something  incongruous 
in  seeing  it  there  so  quiet  in  the  lamplight. 

When  he  was  ushered  in  he  found  he  had  inter- 
rupted a  reading.  Selina  was  sitting  on  the  other 
side  of  the  lamp.  She  had  an  old  calf-covered, 
broken-backed  volume  in  her  hand  ;  an  account  of 
the  campaigns  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  he  dis- 
covered it  to  be.  Later  he  knew  a  good  deal  o 
the  contents  of  the  book. 

He    had    interrupted  them    at    a    stirring  bit 

275 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

Selina  kept  her  finger  between  the  pages  while 
she  shook  hands  with  him. 

"  Finish,  my  girl,"  said  Major  Lacy.  "  Captain 
Dumaresq  will  excuse  us." 

Selina  read  on  to  the  end  of  the  page.  Unlike  her 
sisters  her  accent  was  pure.  She  read  the  stirring, 
quaintly -worded  narrative  with  simple  effect.  She 
was  not  a  great  soldier's  daughter,  and  at  one  in 
everything  with  him,  to  read  Marlborough's  Cam- 
paigns with  quiet  pulses. 

A  little  colour  came  in  her  cheeks  as  she  read. 
A  good  girl,  Captain  Dumaresq  thought  to  himself. 
What  a  blessing  the  old  father  had  her  to  minister 
to  him !  And  she  was  not  likely  to  leave  him. 
How  plain  she  was  !  It  was  not  fair  that  women 
should  be  so  plain.  He  was  a  quixotic  person,  and 
it  gave  him  a  little  stab  to  see  a  woman  so  plain 
and  so  resigned  to  her  plainness.  He  had  known 
women  as  plain,  plainer ;  but  then  the  kind  fates 
had  atoned  to  them  by  making  them  satisfied  with 
their  looks.  A  woman  who  could  read  like  that 
ought  to  be  better-looking. 

When  she  had  finished  her  reading  she  drew  a 
basket  to  her  side  containing  grey  worsted  stock- 
ings, and  finding  one  with  a  great  hole  began  to 
darn  it  while  the  men  talked.  If  she  heard  what 
they  talked  of  she  made  no  sign.  After  a  time 

276 


THE  OLD  HEEO 

she  went  quietly  from  the  room,  and  presently 
reappeared  followed  by  the  tea-tray.  She  poured 
out  the  tea  and  placed  Captain  Dumaresq's  cup 
at  his  elbow.  Then  she  brought  her  father's  and 
arranged  it  on  a  little  table.  Her  movements  were 
quiet  and  quick.  Captain  Dumaresq  was  glad 
she  was  so  void  of  offence.  Sitting  there  with  her 
unlustrous  dark  head  in  the  lamplight,  darning 
innumerable  stockings,  she  was  as  if  she  had  not 
been. 

He  had  paid  his  first  visit  in  the  second  week 
of  November.  By  Christmas  it  was  a  settled 
thing  that  he  spent  a  couple  of  afternoons  a  week 
with  the  old  soldier.  He  usually  found  him  and 
Selina  by  themselves.  The  livelier  daughters  had 
apparently  made  many  friends  and  were  much 
in  request.  After  the  first  they  were  not  greatly 
interested  in  Captain  Dumaresq.  He  was  a  fault- 
less and  dazzling  person  to  be  sure ;  but  a  bit  of  a 
stick,  no  fun  in  him,  for  them  at  least.  For  the 
same  reason  which  made  them  prefer  the  gimcrack 
shops  of  the  Burlington  Arcade  to  the  dazzle  of 
Streeter's  or  Hancock's,  namely,  that  they  were 
interested  in  the  things  within  their  reach,  they 
preferred  the  pink-cheeked  Infantry  subalterns  to 
the  Captain  of  Hussars. 

He  had  been  vaguely  conscious  of  some  gradual 
277 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

mitigation  of  the  lodging-house  ugliness.  At  first 
it  was  a  new  lamp.  Again  his  eye  missed  with 
relief  the  horrible  little  white  and  scarlet  spotted 
lines  of  the  American  cloth  table-cover — its  place 
had  been  taken  by  a  square  of  dull  green  serge. 
There  was  a  clean  strip  of  matting  now  instead 
of  the  greasy  hearth-rug.  One  afternoon  his 
nostrils  were  sensible  of  a  grateful  odour.  There 
was  a  bunch  of  lilies  of  the  valley  in  a  cheap  vase 
on  the  table. 

He  looked  across  at  Selina,  wondering  how  she 
had  come  by  the  flowers.  Lilies  of  the  valley 
were  not  cheap  just  then.  He  was  a  person  of  a 
simple  unspeculative  mind,  and  it  was  not  at  all 
like  him  to  think  of  the  cost  of  the  flowers  and 
to  couple  it  with  the  obvious  poverty  of  the  Lacys. 
He  wondered  if  some  one  had  given  them  to  her. 
He  was  sure  no  one  had  given  them  to  Maud  or 
Betty.  Lilies  of  the  valley  were  incongruous 
with  those  blooming  damsels.  He  felt  himself 
vaguely  displeased  with  the  idea  that  Selina  had 
been  the  recipient  of  the  flowers,  and  ascribed  it 
to  jealousy  on  the  old  man's  account.  Of  course 
she  must  never  leave  him  now.  It  would  be 
cruel,  wicked,  when  she  had  become  so  neces- 
sary to  him.  Fortunately  she  seemed  entirely 
satisfied  with  her  father,  not  like  those  minxes, 

278 


THE  OLD  HEKO 

her   sisters.     It  was   fortunate   that   she   was   so 
plain. 

He  never  had  a  doubt  of  her  plainness  till  he 
met  her  one  evening,  hurrying  along  in  the  dark- 
ness to  a  chemist's  shop  to  get  a  prescription  made 
up  for  her  father's  cough.  He  stopped  and  spoke 
to  her  under  a  street-lamp. 

"He  is  not  worse?"  he  asked,  with  a  shock  of 
alarm.  He  had  been  coming  to  love  the  old 
hero  better  each  time  they  met,  as  the  simple  and 
heroic  soul  revealed  itself  more  freely. 

"  No,  he  is  no  worse." 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  him  and  the  light  of  the 
flaring  street-lamp  was  in  her  face.  He  recognised, 
with  wonder  at  his  own  dullness  that  the  eyes 
were  beautiful,  beautiful  enough  of  themselves 
to  redeem  even  a  plainer  face  than  hers.  They 
were  grey — no,  they  were  black  or  dark  brown  ; 
the  iris  lightened  and  darkened,  a  soul  spoke 
through  the  eyes,  a  beautiful  soul.  Ah !  now, 
he  was  sure  they  were  grey,  but  with  such 
dark  lashes,  and  the  pupils  so  deep  and  so  lus- 
trous. 

"  He  is  no  worse,"  she  said  quietly.  He  started 
at  the  sound  of  her  voice.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
he  had  been  looking  through  her  eyes  into  her 
heart  and  soul  for  a  long,  long  time. 

279 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

''But,  Captain  Dumaresq,"  she  went  on,  "he  is 
not  any  better.  Don't  you  see  what  is  the  matter 
with  him?  They  have  laid  him  away  on  the 
shelf  because  he  has  no  friend  in  high  places  to 
remember  him.  He  wants  work,  to  work  for 
his  country.  He  is  sixty-five,  but  he  is  twenty 
years  younger  in  everything  but  years.  He 
has  no  friends  in  high  places,  therefore  he  is 
laid  aside  while  the  incompetents  get  the  work  to 
do." 

"  No  friends  in  high  places  !  "  Dumaresq  echoed. 
"  But — my  father !  "What  has  my  father  been 
about?  I  think  we  shall  have  need  of  him  soon. 
I  do  not  believe  that  our  next  war  is  going  to  be 
such  an  easy  matter.  Thirty  years  or  so  of  peace 
or  comparative  peace  have  let  the  incompetents 
have  it  all  their  own  way." 

She  kept  her  eyes  steadily  on  his  face  and  he 
heard  her  breath  come  quickly. 

"  Could  you  bear  it,"  he  asked,  "  if  he  were  sent 
on  active  service  once  again?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  I  could  bear  it,"  she  said  almost  joy- 
fully. "  You  see  I  know  how  he  has  fretted." 

The  winter  passed  and  the  spring  came  and  the 
Lacys  were  back  again  in  Bayswater.  But  things 
were  different  with  the  old  soldier.  He  was  not 
going  to  be  forgotten  for  ever.  He  had  had  a 


THE  OLD  HEEO 

message  from  Sir  Valentine  Dnmaresq.  The 
friends  and  comrades  of  many  years  ago  had  met. 
The  old  soldier  had  braced  himself  up  and  got  out 
his  dress-suit — it  was  well  the  moth  wasn't  in  it — 
and  had  dined  with  his  old  friend.  He  had  met 
various  great  people,  and  they  had  made  .hand- 
some speeches  to  him.  He  had  been  thinking  of 
himself  as  forgotten,  worn  out,  thrown  away  as 
worthless  these  five  years  back ;  yet  his  exploits 
seemed  to  have  reached  the  ears  and  even  kept  in 
the  memories  of  these  people.  The  world  held  an 
undreamt-of  hope  after  all. 

Whenever  Captain  Dumaresq  was  at  liberty  to 
run  up  to  town,  and  that  seemed  to  be  pretty 
often,  he  was  sure  to  find  his  way  to  the  Bays- 
water  terrace,  with  the  scrubby  little  square  at  the 
back,  where  Major  Lacy  had  pitched  his  camp  for 
his  declining  years.  Often  now,  since  the  old  hero 
had  been  recognised  by  the  world,  he  found  no  one 
in  but  Selina.  She  was  still  working  at  the  grey 
worsted  stockings. 

Great  things  had  happened  to  every  one  but 
Selina  during  that  last  winter  at  Seaford.  Both 
her  sisters  had  come  back  engaged  to  subalterns  of 
the  line.  Of  course  they  could  not  hope  to  marry 
for  years  and  years ;  but  meanwhile  they  were 
exuberantly  happy  with  their  little  new  diamond 

281 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

rings,  and  their  daily  love-letters,  and  their  endless 
chatter  of  their  lovers  and  themselves.  Less  in 
request  with  her  father  Selina  seemed  more 
pushed  into  a  grey  corner  of  life  than  ever. 

One  afternoon  of  autumn  Captain  Dumaresq 
had  called  and  found  only  Selina.  They  sat  to- 
gether in  the  big  window  overlooking  the  tiny 
scrap  of  garden  and  the  square  beyond.  The 
forest  trees  which  had  been  overtaken  by  the 
town  long  ago  were  beginning  to  lose  their  leaves. 
A  damp  mist  ascended  from  the  garden.  Under 
the  trees,  youths  and  maidens,  usually  of  a  Jewish 
cast  of  features,  strayed  arm  in  arm,  or  coquetted 
in  melancholy  arbours. 

Captain  Dumaresq  had  taken  the  most  comfort- 
able chair  in  the  room  and  was  lying  at  full  length 
in  it.  The  room  was  a  gimcrack  one,  but  it  con- 
tained one  or  two  chairs  in  which  a  very  tall  man 
could  stretch  himself.  He  was  looking  at  Selina 
with  a  certain  lazy  content.  She  was  still  darn- 
ing stockings.  Though  nothing  good  had  hap- 
pened to  her  yet  she  looked  better.  Her  cheeks 
had  filled  out,  and  had  a  faint  colour.  She  was 
plumper,  or  perhaps  one  only  imagined  such 
things  because  a  little  air  of  felicity  lay  about  her 
lips.  Her  dress  of  yellowish  Indian  muslin  be- 
came her.  She  had  bought  the  material  for 

282 


THE  OLD  HEEO 

about  five  shillings  and  had  made  it  herself  with 
an  austerity  that  pleased  Captain  Dumaresq's 
eyes. 

Plain !  Yes,  she  was  plain  still.  She  never 
would  be  anything  but  plain.  But  all  of  a  sudden 
he  realised  that  her  plainness  meant  the  beauty  of 
all  the  world  to  him. 

"I  think  war  will  be  declared  soon,"  he  said, 
"and  your  father  will  get  a  command." 

She  started  and  looked  at  him,  the  quietly 
happy  air  fading  from  off  her  lips. 

"  You  will  be  very  lonely,"  he  went  on. 

"Very,"  she  said.  "But  I  can  bear  it.  I 
shan't  be  the  only  woman.  Poor  Maudie  and  Bet ! 
They  live  in  anguish  lest  Bertie  and  Cecil  should 
be  sent  out." 

"  What  would  you  do  if  you  had  a  lover  as  well 
as  a  father  at  the  war  ?  " 

He  had  drawn  himself  up  in  the  chair  and  was 
looking  steadily  at  her. 

"I  have  never  had  a  lover,"  she  said  in  a  be- 
wildered way.  "How  can  I  imagine  what  I 
would  do?" 

"  You  have  never  had  a  lover.  Have  people  no 
eyes  in  their  heads  ?  " 

A  wounded  flush  came  into  her  cheeks.  She 
took  up  the  stocking  she  had  dropped  and  bent 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

her  eyes  over  it  for  a  second.  Then  she  looked 
at  him,  brave  and  patient. 

"I  have  never  thought  of  lovers,"  she  said. 
"Lovers  are  not  for — for — plain  women  like  me. 
I  had  my  father." 

"Had  they  no  eyes  in  their  heads?"  he  re- 
peated with  a  voice  and  a  manner  she  had  never 
seen  in  him,  never  heard.  "  Perhaps  you  are  plain. 
Indeed  I  think  I  thought  you  plain  at  first.  Now 
I  think  you  exquisite,  adorable.  My  darling,  love 
me,  for  I  cannot  do  without  you.  You  are  my 
home,  my  everything  a  woman  can  be  to  a  man. 
Lift  your  lovely  eyes  to  me  and  tell  me  that  you 
love  me." 

He  carried  her  off  her  feet.  She  protested, 
while  he  silenced  her  with  his  kisses,  that  she  was 
plain,  no  longer  young,  undesirable,  that  he  would 
know  it  all  when  his  madness  passed. 

"That  madness  will  last  for  ever,"  he  said. 
"  Why  you  were  never  plain.  You  are  beautiful, 
were  always  beautiful,  will  always  be  beautiful  to 
me.  Our  hearts  met  first  over  your  father,  met 
never  to  part.  I  have  never  loved  a  woman  be- 
fore. How  long  will  you  keep  me  before  you  tell 
me  that  you  love  me  ?  " 

He  held  her  face  away  from  him,  the  better  to 
see  it.  Why,  she  was  beautiful.  It  was  only  that 

284 


THE  OLD  HEKO 

the  scales  had  fallen  from  his  eyes.  She  had 
been  always  beautiful.  What  a  soul  in  those 
eyes  ! 

"I  don't  deserve  you,"  he  said  humbly,  "but  I 
love  you.  I  have  loved  you  all  the  time." 

"And  I  you,"  she  said  with  her  ecstatic  air  of 
bewilderment. 


285 


THE  KNOCKING  AT  THE  DOOR, 

OLD  Maeve  sat  in  her  room  in  a  gable  of  the  house 
and  stitched  incessantly.  It  was  a  room  that  took 
all  the  storms,  a  south-west  gable,  and  since  Ard- 
lewy  Castle  was  on  the  Atlantic  seaboard  there 
were  a  good  many  days  of  the  year  when  the 
boughs  clashed  and  moaned  outside  the  window 
as  though  in  mortal  pain,  and  the  rain  beat  against 
the  glass.  But  Maeve  with  her  little  turf-fire  and 
the  black  tea-pot  perpetually  in  the  ashes  was 
happy  enough. 

"I  do  be  thinkin',"  Maeve  would  say  when 
Madam  O'Donnell  would  come  in  and  sit  with  her 
in  a  lonesome  silence,  "  of  how  different  it  used  to 
be  when  we  had  the  nurseries.  Big  as  they  are 
they  were  hardly  big  enough,  what  with  Master 
Hugh,  and  Master  Aymer,  and  Master  Dermot, 
and  Master  Brien,  and  Master  Garret,  and  Master 
Donal,  and  Miss  Cecilia,  the  Lord  rest  them  all ! 
Isn't  it  a  quare  way  that  there  must  be  only  old 

286 


THE  KNOCKING  AT  THE  DOOR 

in  the  castle,  and  the  young  gone  out  of  it  ?  It 
does  seem  unnathural  like  to  me." 

Madam  was  very  fond  of  her  old  nurse,  yet 
these  visits  to  her  were  invariably  a  re-opening  of 
old  wounds.  To  be  sure  it  was  sad  enough  for  all 
of  them  that  the  children  were  gone,  the  boys 
killed  in  battle  or  the  hunting-field,  or  dying  of 
chills,  the  only  daughter  drowned  in  a  sudden 
squall  when  she  sailed  her  little  boat  to  the  island, 
she  that  was  as  much  at  home  on  the  water  as  the 
sea-mew  or  the  gull. 

Maeve  had  fostered  the  eldest  son,  Hugh,  and 
had  been  nurse  to  all  the  rest.  So  she  would  never 
go  out  of  Ardlewy  while  the  Prince  and  Madam 
stayed  in  it,  and  she  must  have  her  little  comforts 
so  far  as  they  could  give  them  to  her  and  a  quiet 
life,  darning  innumerable  little  holes  in  acres  of 
fine  worn  damask,  sometimes  mending  Madam's 
laces  or  repairing  the  ravages  time  or  the  moth  had 
made  in  silks  and  tapestries  of  curtains  or  furniture. 
The  room  in  the  gable  was  a  little  kingdom  to  her 
where  she  lived  retired  from  contact  with  the  other 
servants,  with  whom  she  quarrelled  if  she  had  the 
chance.  She  had  her  own  food  and  her  few  simple 
utensils  for  cooking.  She  never  left  the  gable- 
room  except  to  go  to  Mass  of  Sundays  or  holidays. 
She  seemed  as  much  a  fixture  in  the  house  as  the 

287 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

tattered  flags  or  the  suits  of  armour  that  had  out- 
lasted so  many  beautiful  spirited  creatures  of  flesh 
and  blood. 

So  long  as  the  Prince  lived  they  were  all  safe  in 
Ardlewy,  and  if  the  money  was  not  much  there 
was  enough  for  their  wants,  seeing  they  were  all 
so  old.  To  be  sure  the  heir-at-law  grumbled  a  deal 
about  the  disrepair  into  which  the  house  was  fall- 
ing, and  the  Prince  was  more  fretted  for  the  sake 
of  the  house  than  he  was  for  the  heir  for  whom  he 
had  no  love. 

"  I  wish  I  could  take  the  house  with  me,"  he 
would  say  to  Madam,  "ajid  not  have  it  go  to 
Walter  Burke.  I  never  thought  to  see  Ardlewy 
pass  to  a  Burke.  Weren't  they  always  against 
us  ?  Wasn't  there  a  Queen's  Burke  when  Owen 
More  Art  O'Donnell  hid  in  the  mountains  of  Mun- 
ster,  and  he  starving,  and  the  Queen's  Burke 
away  in  London  singing  madrigals  to  the  Queen  ?  " 

He  would  talk  as  though  the  Princes  of  Ardlewy 
of  these  latter  days  were  not  loyal  men ;  but  in- 
deed he  lived  in  that  mist  of  shadows  that  the 
days  of  Queen  Elizabeth  were  in  a  sense  nearer 
to  him  than  his  own,  and  the  old  vexations  had  as 
much  power  to  hurt  him  as  the  new,  unless  it  was 
the  vexation  of  knowing  that  Walter  Burke  was 
uneasy  for  his  shoes,  and  grumbled  because  Ard- 


THE  KNOCKING  AT  THE  DOOE 

lewy  suffered.  And  it  was  a  ve  \  great  vexation 
to  him  that  Ardlewy  should  suffer.  There  was 
hardly  anywhere  he  could  walk  that  he  did  not 
suffer  this  vexation,  what  with  the  long  ranges  of 
empty  stabling  that  had  been  almost  stripped  of 
slates  the  night  of  the  big  wind,  what  with  the 
gardens  gone  to  weeds,  and  the  gravel-paths 
hardly  distinguishable  from  the  beds,  what  with 
the  roof  that  leaked,  and  the  floors  that  crumbled 
and  the  more  perishable  stuffs  that  all  wanted  re- 
newing. 

Then  there  was  the  incessant  encroaching  damp 
in  the  acres  of  rooms  where  it  was  hopeless  to 
think  of  lighting  fires,  since  the  servants  were 
so  old  and  there  was  no  coal  nearer  than  Galway 
and  none  to  chop  the  trees  for  firewood,  although 
the  place  was  a  wilderness  with  fallen  trees  ever 
since  that  same  night  of  the  big  wind.  And  to  be 
sure  Walter  Burke  was  rich  and  could  give  the 
place  all  it  needed ;  and  since  the  children  were 
gone  the  Prince  had  taken  the  house  to  his  heart 
as  though  it  were  human,  and  fretted  over  its  needs 
as  one  might  over  a  child's. 

"  If  it  were  not  for  you,  Grace,"  he  would  say  to 
Madam,  "I'd  as  lief  it  were  all  done  and  over  and 
that  Walter  Burke  might  have  the  place  while 
it  yet  held  together." 

19  289 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

But  this  was  only  in  time  of  much  depression ; 
and  Madam  hearing  him  would  shed  a  tear  or 
two. 

Compared  with  all  the  rest  Madam  was  a  child. 
She  was  no  more  than  fifty-five,  while  her  husband 
was  seventy-five,  and  the  youngest  of  the  old 
servants  was  not  far  short  of  seventy.  What  with 
the  old  house  and  the  old  servants,  and  dogs,  and 
pensioners  who  swarmed  to  the  kitchen  every 
day,  although  the  O'Donnells  had  little  enough  for 
themselves,  it  was  easy  to  be  young  at  fifty-five. 
And  Madam's  great  dread  was  that  presently  she 
would  be  left  alone.  Then  Walter  Burke  would 
come  in  and  take  over  the  place  and  would 
pension  her  off  genteelly  for  the  rest  of  her  days, 
in  a  little  villa  at  Salthill  it  might  be,  she  who 
had  borne  O'Donnell,  Prince  of  Ardlewy,  six  sons 
and  a  daughter.  Walter  Burke  had  married  a 
soap-chandler's  daughter  and  she  would  be  mistress 
of  Ardlewy.  Often,  often,  Madam  put  up  her 
gentle,  voiceless  prayer  that  she  might  be  taken 
before  that  day  came. 

Often  enough  old  Maeve  would  forget  that  the 
good  days  had  gone  and  the  sad  days  come,  and 
those  were  hard  times  with  Madam  when  she 
would  climb  up  to  the  turret-room  and  would  find 
the  old  woman  in  one  of  her  trances,  when  she 

290 


THE  KNOCKING  AT  THE  BOOK 

would  talk  of  the  children  as  thou^i  they  were  yet 
alive  and  children,  and  these  were  the  old  good 
rich  days  before  death  and  poverty  had  come  to  a 
handful  of  old  folks  at  Ardlewy  Castle.  "  Master 
Hugh  has  the  knees  worn  through  his  knickers 
again,"  Maeve  would  say,  smoothing  out  a  little 
old  garment.  "If  you  will  send  to  Galway  for 
the  flannel,  Madam,  I  will  make  him  a  new 
pair." 

Then  Madam  would  look  at  her  gently  and 
shake  her  head,  answering  at  the  same  time  that 
she  would  send  to  Galway  for  the  flannel. 

She  envied  old  Maeve  her  dreams.  She  envied 
also,  while  she  grieved  over  the  forgetfulness  of  old 
age  that  was  beginning  to  steal  on  the  Prince. 
He  had  begun  to  forget  his  troubles,  except  when 
a  letter  from  Walter  Burke  or  the  lawyers  would 
come  to  recall  them,  or  he  would  come  upon  some 
ruined  thing  so  insistent  that  even  his  wavering 
thoughts  could  not  overlook  it.  He  ought  not  to 
have  failed  so  soon,  seeing  that  the  O'Donnells  had 
always  been  long  lived,  and  that  he  had  been  much 
in  the  open  air.  But  Madam  could  not  but  ac- 
knowledge that  the  forgetfulness  was  a  mercy. 
When  they  walked  up  and  down  together  now  on 
the  terrace-path  he  talked  usually  of  old  things 
that  had  occurred  long  ago.  About  them  his 

291 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

memory  was  unfailing  and  he  seemed  to  linger 
only  on  gentle  and  pleasant  things  of  the  past. 

His  animosities,  which  had  been  fierce  enough, 
began  to  fade.  He  no  longer  denounced  the 
agitators  who  had  impoverished  him,  and  the 
Government  which  he  had  been  used  to  call  their 
accomplices.  Even  the  name  of  Walter  Burke 
had  less  and  less  power  to  disturb  him. 

"  A  time  will  come,"  Madam  said  to  herself, 
"  when  only  I  shall  remember." 

Hugh's  dog,  Eory,  an  old,  very  big  Irish  terrier, 
crippled  with  rheumatism,  turned  one  melancholy 
watchful  eye  upon  her  as  though  he  understood 
the  thought. 

It  was  a  morning  of  April.  All  the  winter  it 
had  been  a  winter  of  storms,  and  if  they  had  no 
big  wind  in  the  sense  of  those  that  made  history, 
the  piping  and  shrieking  of  the  wind  about  the 
castle  and  down  the  long  corridors  and  in  the 
disused  rooms  had  become  so  familiar  a  sound 
that  it  was  as  if  one  always  lived  in  a  hurly-burly. 
The  green  was  on  the  boughs  now,  and  the  sun 
was  warm,  but  the  wind,  between  the  North-West 
and  the  South-West,  showed  no  sign  of  abating. 
In  shelter  it  was  warm  enough  ;  and  the  old  dog 
lay  on  the  mat  which  Madam  had  spread  for  him 
in  front  of  the  hall-door  and  basked  in  the  sun. 

292 


THE  KNOCKING  AT  THE  DOOE 

"I  believe  you  remember,"  sh-  t  lid,  stooping  to 
fondle  the  dog.  ''But  he  will  never  come  back. 
Don't  you  know  that  he  died  in  Australia  long  ago  ? 
Even  his  bones  are  not  laid  among  us." 

Hugh  had  gone  away  after  the  ruin  had  fallen 
upon  them,  with  some  vague,  generous  youthful 
dream  of  building  up  a  fortune  for  Ardlewy  and 
had  never  returned.  Five  years  after  he  had  gone 
they  had  heard  of  his  death  from  a  chum  of  his 
who  had  watched  his  last  hours  in  an  Adelaide 
hospital.  The  news  had  come  a  week  after 
Cecilia  had  been  carried  in  in  the  sail  of  a  fisher- 
man's boat,  drowned  and  dead.  Madam  could  yet 
hear  the  dripping  from  the  sail  on  the  black  and 
white  marble  pavement  of  the  castle  hall  into 
which  they  had  carried  her.  She  wondered  how 
they  had  all  lived  to  be  old,  seeing  that  such  things 
had  happened  to  them. 

The  old  dog  whimpered  as  she  caressed  him  and 
trembled  violently. 

"I  believe  you  remember,"  she  said.  "  And  to 
be  sure  Maeve  remembers.  But  she  will  not  re- 
member for  long,  and  when  the  cloud  deepens  on 
her  brain  it  will  be  a  mercy  to  me." 

Old  Maeve  had  been  curiously  excited  of  late. 
Once  or  twice  she  had  muttered  half-apologetic- 
ally  that  the  big  wind  had  got  into  her  head, 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

and  that  the  roaring  of  it  confused  her :  and,  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  that  same  thing  had  happened  to 
many  persons,  some  of  whom  experienced  deaf- 
ness, others  headache,  and  many  a  confusion  of  the 
senses,  so  that  it  was  no  wonder  an  old  half -mad 
woman,  living  amid  ghosts  and  the  past  and 
thinking,  thinking  incessantly,  should  have  been 
affected  by  it. 

A  little  while  ago  when  Madam  had  visited  her 
in  her  turret-room,  where  the  winds  whistled  as 
through  the  rigging  of  a  ship,  she  had  found  the 
old  woman  more  distraught  than  usual. 
-  "  Will  the  wind  never  die?  "  she  had  asked,  and 
her  hands  trembled  at  the  darning. 

"Does  it  disturb  you,  Maeve?"  Madam  asked 
kindly.  She  had  gathered  a  few  primroses  out- 
of-doors  and  was  arranging  them  in  a  vase  be- 
fore the  statue  of  the  Angel  Guardian  who  had 
been  wont  to  look  down  on  a  full  nursery  long 
ago. 

"It  isn't  that,  Madam,"  Maeve  answered  im- 
patiently. "  It  isn't  the  noise  of  it  I'd  be  caring 
for  at  this  time  of  day.  Sure  I'd  think  the  world 
was  dead  if  'twas  to  die  away,  I'm  that  used  to  it. 
It's  only  that  Master  Hugh  will  be  coming  by  the 
hooker  from  Gal  way  to-night.  'Tis  the  crazy  ould 
hooker  she  is,  and  Michael  Sweeney  not  the  man 

294 


THE  KNOCKING  AT  THE  DOOE 

he  was  to  manage  her.  I'd  be  gla<1  Master  Hugh 
was  in  safe." 

"Oh!" 

With  a  voiceless  cry  Madam  had  dropped  the 
primroses  and  run  out  of  the  room.  There  were 
times  when  Maeve's  hallucinations  were  too  much 
for  her  heart  to  bear.  She  stood  for  a  few  minutes 
to  recover  herself,  wringing  her  hands  together  in 
the  silence  of  the  long  sunny  corridor.  Then  she 
went  back  into  the  room. 

"You  forget,  Maeve,"  she  said  gently,  "that 
Michael  Sweeney  is  dead,  and  Terence  his  son  has 
a  fine  new  hooker." 

She  had  not  the  heart  to  add  that  Hugh  was 
dead  too,  but  went  away  quietly. 

All  that  day  the  clouds  in  great  masses  of  smoked 
pearl  drifted  to  them  over  the  mountains  of  the 
North,  sometimes  hurried  along  furiously  by  a 
screaming  and  lashing  wind,  at  other  times  moving 
majestically  with  the  sun,  turning  them  to  ice-floes 
and  icebergs.  At  intervals  they  broke  in  heavy, 
sleety  rain  during  which  the  mountains  and  the 
sea  and  the  stretches  of  bog  were  all  washed  out 
in  the  grey  water.  Sometimes  there  were  flakes 
of  snow  in  the  rain.  Then  the  storm  would  pass 
over  and  the  whole  world  be  shining  and  sparkling 
beyond  Aladdin's  jewels,  and  the  wind  would  shake 

295 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

the  rose  bushes  scattering  diamonds  and  the  little 
flowers  would  lift  their  wet  faces  to  the  sun. 

She  did  not  know  that  Maeve  had  unlocked 
Hugh's  room,  locked  so  long,  and  had  set  the 
windows  open,  and  lit  a  fire  in  the  rusty  grate,  and 
swept  and  dusted,  and  set  the  sheets  and  blankets 
to  air  so  that  the  room  should  be  ready  against  her 
nursling's  return. 

"  Sure  the  ould  head  of  her's  cracked,"  said  one 
of  the  servants  to  the  other.  "  And  isn't  it  the 
quare  long  journey  he'd  be  takin'  if  he  was  to 
come  home?  " 

"  It  'ud  break  the  Madam's  heart  if  she  was  to 
know  of  it,"  said  the  other.  "  'Tis  a  mercy  she's 
that  tied  to  the  Prince  that  she's  not  likely  to 
climb  up  here." 

The  hooker  brought  provisions  and  other  things 
from  Galway  to  the  castle.  With  a  fair  wind  it 
was  in  before  nightfall,  but  with  the  winds  they 
had  been  having  of  late  it  was  no  use  counting 
upon  it.  As  likely  as  not  it  might  be  blown  out 
of  its  way  and  not  get  in  for  a  day  yet.  But  there 
was  always  a  sense  of  expectancy  when  the  hooker 
was  coming,  both  at  the  castle  and  in  the  tiny  fish- 
ing village.  It  was  the  one  link  between  Ardlewy 
and  the  world. 

It  brought  Madam  the  newspapers,  and  the 
296 


THE  KNOCKING  AT  THE  DOOE 

novels  from  the  circulating  library  \*  ith  which  she 
read  the  Prince  to  sleep  and  the  silks  for  her 
embroidery.  She  embroidered  during  the  hours 
of  the  day  in  which  she  kept  up  a  soft  desultory 
conversation  with  the  Prince,  listening  for  the 
thousandth  time  to  the  old  stories,  leading  his 
thoughts  away  gently  when  they  got  too  near 
grievous  things.  Even  Madam  had  her  little  sense 
of  anticipation  about  the  hooker. 

The  night  came  wet  and  wild,  no  moon  and  no 
star  visible  for  the  heavy  clouds  and  the  rain.  The 
Prince  went  to  bed  early.  Usually  it  was  easy  to 
read  him  to  sleep,  but  this  night  he  was  restless. 

"Put  down  the  book,  Grace,"  he  said  at  last, 
laying  a  hand  over  hers.  "  Let  us  talk  about  real 
things.  So  many  things  have  happened  to  us  since 
we  were  married.  I  remember  the  glint  of  your 
hair  and  the  rose  of  your  cheek  under  your  veil  of 
lace  as  though  it  were  but  yesterday." 

The  wind  seemed  to  have  excited  him  as  well  as 
Maeve.  He  kept  waking  up,  dropping  asleep  for  a 
little  while  and  then  waking  again.  Madame  re- 
plenished the  fire,  lit  fresh  candles,  talked  when  he 
would  talk,  watched  him  while  he  slept.  But  the 
sleeps  were  of  such  short  duration  that  she  never 
thought  of  going  to  bed  herself ;  they  were  so  light 
that  the  gentlest  movement  awoke  him. 

297 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  he  asked,  about  two  o'clock  in 
the  morning. 

"  Only  the  wind  in  the  chimney." 

"  Wasn't  there  some  one  at  the  door  ?  " 

"  Only  the  wind." 

The  wind  rattled  the  door-handle  as  she  spoke 
and  the  door  lifted  in  its  frame.  None  of  the 
servants  would  sleep  in  the  corridor  which  was 
reputed  haunted,  but  huddled  together  for  comfort 
somewhere  in  the  lower  regions.  Madam  had  no 
fear  of  ghosts.  Her  own  beloved  ghosts  had  never 
returned  to  her.  She  had  often  thought  that  even 
if  they  would  come  as  ghosts  she  would  die  of  the 
joy  of  seeing  them,  of  the  satisfaction  of  having  her 
long  hunger  slaked  at  last. 

"  When  I  am  gone,"  said  the  Prince,  "you  will 
be  left  alone,  Grace,  quite  alone.  There  was  not  as 
lovely  a  girl  as  you  in  the  country,  nor  one  with 
such  a  seat  in  the  saddle.  I  did  badly  for  you,  my 
poor  girl." 

She  stooped  and  kissed  his  hand  passionately. 

At  (the  moment  there  came  the  far-away  sound 
of  the  great  door-knocker  and  she  started. 

"Who  can  it  be,"  she  asked,  "at  this  time  of 
the  night?  If  the  hooker  is  in  they  would  not 
waken  us  till  morning.  Ah,  there  it  is  again  !  " 

"I  was  asleep,"  said  the  Prince  placidly,  "  and 


THE  KNOCKING  AT  THE  BOOK 

I  dreamt  that  Hugh  was  coming  home  from  school 
by  the  hooker,  as  he  used  to  come.  Stay,  I  will 
come  with  you.  Why  do  not  the  stupid  servants 
open  the  door?" 

"They  would  expect  to  find  a  ghost,"  Madam 
said,  smiling  palely.  "  The  louder  the  knocking 
the  more  they  will  huddle  under  the  clothes." 

She  stood,  holding  the  candle,  while  the  Prince 
dressed.  As  they  went  down  the  stairs  together 
the  knocking  at  the  door  was  louder,  more  insistent. 

"  It  is  like  a  hundred  drums,"  the  Prince  mur- 
mured to  himself,  letting  down  the  bars  of  the  door. 

As  it  fell  open  the  wind  blew  out  the  candle,  and 
they  could  see  nothing  except  some  hooded  un- 
certain shapes  outside  the  door.  But  it  was  no 
ghost  that  spoke. 

"We  travelled  by  the  hooker,"  said  a  man's 
muffled  voice.  "  We  were  all  but  wrecked.  We 
ask  your  hospitality." 

"Ardlewy  has  always  welcomed  the  stranger," 
said  the  Prince  loftily.  "Ah,  here  are  lights. 
Come  in,  come  in;  there  will  be  fire  and  food 
presently." 

There  was  exhilaration  in  his  voice,  something 
that  had  been  long  lost  out  of  it.  He  took  a  can- 
dle from  one  of  the  half-dressed,  curious  servants, 
and  led  the  way  to  the  drawing-room.  He  did 

299 


THE  LOST  ANGEL 

not  notice  how  Madam  glanced  fearfully  at  the 
stranger  whose  face  was  in  shadow.  Was  her  head 
going  like  all  the  rest  of  them  that  she  imagined 
voices  ceased  out  of  the  world  for  ever  ? 

She  scarcely  glanced  at  the  young  woman  with 
the  child  held  to  her  breast  who  followed  the  man. 
She  crept  up  the  great  staircase  behind  them, 
softly  clasping  and  unclasping  her  hands.  In  the 
drawing-room  the  Prince  was  lighting  the  candles 
in  the  huge  chandelier.  One  of  the  servants  came 
in  with  things  to  make  a  fire.  Another  followed 
with  wine. 

"We  are  half -drowned,"  said  the  man  again; 
and  there  was  the  sound  of  water  dripping  on  the 
polished  floor. 

Then  some  one  flew  in  from  the  staircase  with  a 
cry  ;  old  Maeve  with  her  hair  dishevelled,  but  her 
eyes  with  the  madness  gone  from  them. 

"  Go  to  your  mother,  to  her  first,"  she  said, 
pushing  the  stranger  into  Madam's  arms.  "  I  told 
her  you  were  coming.  I  felt  in  the  breast  that 
nursed  you  that  you  were  still  warm.  Feel  him, 
Madam.  'Tisn't  a  ghost  he  is.  'Tis  Master  Hugh 
come  home." 

It  was  Master  Hugh  who  had  come  back  to  life 
from  death,  who  had  come  home  with  gold  in 
plenty  to  lavish  it  on  Ardlewy,  who  had  brought 

300 


THE  KNOCKING  AT  THE  BOOK 

back  a  wife  and  a  son  to  restore  tl-e  old  joy  to  the 
place.  The  youth  had  come  back  to  Ardlewy ; 
life  stirred  again  in  the  lonesome  house,  among  the 
old  hearts.  The  Prince  came  out  of  his  memories 
and  his  dreams  to  the  reality  of  his  son  and  his 
son's  son.  Once  again  there  was  a  happy  stir  and 
movement  in  Ardlewy,  as  the  old  house  renewed  its 
youth.  Madam  would  never  be  lonely  now ;  and 
as  for  Maeve,  busy  in  the  nurseries,  she  had  taken 
a  new  lease  of  life. 


THE   ABERDEEN   UNIVERSITY   PBESS    LIMITED 

301 


I/ 


